Love, Hate, and Accounting
by CrossingTheSky
Summary: Meet Matthew Williams and Alfred Jones, two friends fresh out of university. Their combined investigative experience is based entirely on Season 1 of CSI. Naturally, they decide that they're the ideal candidates to catch a serial killer.
1. Chapter 1

Love, Hate, and Accounting

Chapter 1

_In which we are introduced to Matthew Williams, Alfred Jones, and their less refined coworker-turned-drinking-buddy, Gilbert._

"So, did you hear about Craig?"

"Hmm?" Matthew Williams glanced up from his computer, quickly minimizing the Tetris game flashing in an open window and turning to face his co-worker. Fresh out of university, eighty thousand dollars lighter with nothing but a degree in economics to show for it, he had been thrust into the world of business just in time for the market crash. Fucking perfect.

The one perk for which he could credit his university experience was meeting his best friend, Alfred Jones, aka 'that overly-happy looking blonde kid who annoys the crap out of the old British guy one cubicle over'. The two had met at a party in first year. Or rather, Alfred had discovered Matthew, streaked with blue paint and reeking of less-than-legal substances, flopped limply over an unknown student's bathtub. Matthew, being French Canadian (and, though he was loathe to admit it, a bit of a hipster), had wavy blonde hair that reached just past his chin, and Alfred had taken this to be a sure sign that Matthew was in fact, a girl.

So, being a little (read: incredibly) drunk, Alfred had taken it upon himself to rescue the damsel in distress. (Who, in reality, was sleeping peacefully in the bathtub, unaware of both the drunken student leaning over him, and the impending hangover that would slam into him like a freight train upon his awakening.) Alfred dragged Matthew to his dorm and placed his limp body on the bed before passing out on the floor. It was only the next day, when both boys had woken with fragmented memories of the past night, that Alfred discovered that Matthew was in fact, male. It had been a slight disappointment, but Alfred had never been one to dwell on things, and had taken it upon himself to make the best of the situation.

Five years later, the two were inseparable.

"No, sorry. Who's Craig?" Matthew asked, turning his attention back to his computer, absently fiddling with the mouse and debating the merits of continuing his game to tetris. He didn't really want to be perceived as lazy during his first month of employment, but then again, it wasn't like his co-worker would really care.

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting you've only been here for a few weeks. Time flies and all that shit," chuckled Gilbert Beschmilt, the co-worker in question.

Matt snorted, flicking a pencil in Gilbert's direction. "I agree. Spending 10 hours a day slaving over a computer, doing pointless work for pointless people and never getting any appreciation for the time I've wasted has made me realize just how valuable a business degree really is. I'm really glad I spend a fuckload of money to get here."

"So much hate for such a small guy. You're going to grow up to be one of those serial killers, you know? It's like they say, the quiet ones are the guys to watch out for."

"Suck it, princess," Matt growled, smacking Gilbert and turning his attention back to his computer, his eyes skimming over the pile of papers spread across his desk. He'd get to those later.

"Easy there," Gilbert whined, holding his arm. "You know I bruise easily." Gilbert prodded at the blossoming red mark contrasting with his freakishly pale skin. He was a genetic albino, complete with white hair, red eyes, and paper-white skin that was a source of eternal amusement for his friend. When he and Matt first met, Matt had gone to elaborate methods just to see just how easily the albino's skin would burn if exposed to the sunlight, having been partially convinced by a shady website that albinos were descendants of vampires. Gilbert had woken up the next morning in an unknown bed, hung over and suffering from frostbite on one arm and first degree burns on the other. It was only when Matt had stumbled into the room, equally hung over, and apologized profusely that Gilbert learned what had happened. After 24 hours of being waited on hand and foot by an anxious Canadian, Gilbert was ready to forgive him. That and, Matt had used the defense of intoxication to form a rather compelling argument as to why he shouldn't be beaten and left to die in a gutter. And so, a friendship was formed.

Gilbert's attention was drawn back to the present as he registered another slap cracking along his arm. Matthew smirked. "Was there a point to your interruption, or were you just fucking around, as usual?" Matthew asked, spinning in his chair idly.

"Whatever, it's not like you were doing anything anyway," Gilbert snapped, ignoring Matt's sputtering protest, "And yes, there is a point to this. I'm surprised you haven't heard of Craig. I thought you would have met him by now; he usually goes out of his way to flaunt his superiority over the less fortunate dregs of the corporate system."

"Well, that's capitalism for you," remarked Matt, re-opening his tertis game and cursing under his breath when a mountain of coloured blocks filled the screen.

"True that," Gilbert remarked, wheeling his chair next to Matt's. "Man, you suck at that game."

"Not nearly as hard as you. Anyway, you had news about Craig?"

"Right. Well, he's a real asshole. Like, he sends his intern out every lunch to get Starbucks just so he can come back later, order a different cup, and sit down with the other pretentious assholes on their Macs and discuss slam poetry."

"What do you know about slam poetry?" Matt joked, closing his game and bringing up an excel document as three knocks sounded on the wall of their cubicle.

"Scott's coming, by the way." He rolled his eyes as Gilbert returned to his side of the cubicle and pretended to sift through paperwork. A few seconds later, a man in a pressed black suit strode by, stopping briefly to and confirm that Matt and Gilbert were indeed working before continuing on his way.

As soon as he left, Gilbert stuck his head outside the thin wall of their cubicle. He watched as the retreating figure stepped through a set of double doors –shoving an intern to the side as he did so- and disappeared from sight.

"Ok," sighed Gilbert, "About Craig. He's dead."

"What?" Matt exclaimed, eyes darting about the cubicle as though Craig's ghost had nothing better to do than listen in on their conversations. (Which, to be fair, maybe it didn't.)

"Yeah. They found the body sometime over the weekend. Accounting's in a real mess; apparently he encrypted all his files."

"Is that all you're concerned about?" Matt asked, staring at his friend in horror.

"Well," Gilbert mused, lowering his voice and leaning in conspiratorially, "I don't know about you, but I find it kind of suspicious. I mean, he sure as hell didn't die of natural causes. And if something public happened, we would have heard about it one way or another. Maybe not from the people stuck here," he snorted disdainfully, "but certainly in a memo or something."

"So they didn't announce his death," Matt replied, rolling his eyes. "Plenty of people want to keep things private. No sense playing into the blood sport of modern media."

"Think Matt. This was no ordinary guy. If Craig had any idea he was going to die, he'd make it so that nobody living in the same city would forget him for a long, long, time. At the very least, he would have taken out a full-page ad in the newspaper. So why haven't we heard anything?"

"I don't think he'd go that far, but I guess you have a point. Congrats princess, you've convinced me that his death was slightly abnormal. So what do you think happened?"

"Nobody knows. But if I had to guess, I'd say it was murder."

Matthew sucked in a breath. "That's a dangerous accusation."

"Well, it seems like the only possible option."

"Still, you shouldn't just say things like that. What if there's an investigation? What if you're suspected because someone overheard? What if," he growled, voice rising angrily, "they take you in and then come after me because they think I'm somehow associated with you?"

"Well," Gilbert interrupted, "They're right on that last point. You _are_ my co-worker. I have to put up with you for 9 hours a day. From a cop's perspective, that's plenty of time for me to slowly convince you to join me in my quest for vengeance." At this, he spread his arms dramatically, cackling like a maniac.

Matthew shoved him roughly on the shoulder, sending him toppling sideways in his chair into a filing cabinet. "Shut up, asshole. I'm just using some common sense, since you seem to have none."

"Yo, Matt, Gilbert. You bros up for lunch?"

Matthew and Gilbert both looked up, nodding at the sunny blonde who stood in the entrance to their cubicle.

Gilbert sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Nah man, I have a report due tomorrow and I haven't even started. Much as I'd love to get out of here, I think I'm stuck for at least another five hours."

"Sorry to hear it," Alfred replied, grinning apologetically. "Matt?"

"Hell yeah. Anything to get away from this loser." Shrugging on his jacket and wincing as Gilbert slapped his ass, Matthew flounced out of the cubicle.

"See you in a hour," he called, winking at Gilbert before disappearing down the long row of cubicles leading toward the exit.

"He alright?" Alfred asked, gesturing in the direction Matthew had left.

"Yeah, poor muffin's just anxious with the news about Craig."

"You heard too? Well, I guess it's not that surprising. The news has probably spread through the whole building by this point."

"So what do you think about it?

"I think I should catch up to Matt before he gets too pissed. He's my ride home."

"You're so responsible."

"I know!" Alfred beamed, sending Gilbert an Oscar worthy smile.

"You're killing me." Gilbert responded flatly, turning back to his computer.

Alfred laughed before heading off in search of Matthew, finally finding the blonde man sitting in his car and listening to sports radio.

"So what's up?" he asked, sliding into the passenger seat, turning down the radio as he did so.

"I don't know what you mean," Matthew replied, staring moodily out the window.

"You were more of a prick than usual, and I mean, you were talking to Gilbert, and that would be enough to piss anyone off-" Matthew chuckled quietly at this, "-But I mean, you're usually more patient than that." Alfred paused, waiting for an answer and signing when none came forward. He'd been friends with Matthew for a long time, and although he was loathe to admit it, he was beginning to really care for the little train wreck that humanity had presented to him that fateful evening in first year. He was even getting used to his hipster-talk, as Alfred affectionately called it, and weird taste in TV shows.

Alfred grew up in the Southern United States on his aunt's farm. He was considered to be the typical all-American boy, with his short blonde hair, sky blue eyes and passion for football. His aunt lived on an orange plantation, and everyday Alfred had gone out into the orchards after school to play baseball with the workers. (Some of whom, he would guiltily admit, weren't exactly legal residents and therefore didn't receive the proper thanks that they deserved.)

Still, he had an ideal childhood by most people's standards, which was why it had come as such as surprise when he announced that he would be going to university in Canada. His aunt hadn't received the news very well at first, but after several months of coercion, (and quite a bit of flat-begging), she had allowed him to go, and agreed to pay for half of his tuition.

And so, he had arrived in Ontario that August with his head filled with dreams and his bags filled with smuggled Florida oranges.

Of course, many of those dreams quickly changed after the first few weeks at school. Instead of studying every night, as he had promised his aunt, he found himself partying with the other first year boys. And although he didn't get the perfect average that he wanted, his grades didn't suffer _too_ badly, and managed to graduate with passable grades in all his courses.

"Besides," Matthew had reasoned the night before graduation, "It's not like anyone cares what marks you had, as long as you have a degree. Bonus points if that degree is printed on expensive paper. They'll care more about that than what degree you have."

That advice had proved to be true, and Alfred now found himself working at the same company as Matthew, though the American was decidedly happier about it.

"I heard Craig died." Matthew finally muttered, bringing Alfred's attention back to the present. Matthew glanced in his direction, gauging the American's reaction as he started the engine and reversed out of the parking space.

"Oh yeah, Arthur said something about that this morning," Alfred replied, completely ignoring his friend's sulking. "I wonder what happened. Everyone seems to be coming up with their own version of the incident."

"Yeah, I know. Gilbert thought it would be fun to blurt his theory out where anyone could hear."

"Well, that's Gilbert for you," Alfred chuckled. "Seriously though, don't worry about it. Nobody takes him seriously."

"But he was talking about murder!" Matthew exclaimed, slamming his hands on the steering wheel exasperatedly.

Alfred stilled. "Really? Murder? I mean, other people have brought up the idea that it might he might not have gone out because of good ol' natural causes, but they've never outright…" he trailed off, glancing back at the Canadian.

"Yeah. Murder. And that's not the worst part. I think he could be right."

"How so? Alfred was cautious, cool eyes scanning the parking lot as they pulled into Tim Horton's. It sounded stupid, but the very mention of murder was enough to put him on edge.

Matthew seemed to tap into his nervousness as he pulled into a vacant spot –the only one left, coincidentally. Smirking lightly and cheering internally at the victory, Matthew gave Alfred a pat on the thigh. Really, it was more like a slap. "Don't sweat it. I'm overreacting. Gilbert just makes me want to smack him sometimes."

"Yeah," Alfred nervously chuckled, exiting the car and beginning the frigid trudge through the icy parking lot. Matthew jogged ahead, grinning at the fluffy snowflakes blowing off the roof and sprinkling the cars below. Pulling a pair of gloves from his pocket, Matthew scooped a handful of snow from its resting place atop some single, childless woman's minivan. He chuckled darkly as Alfred caught on to his plan a second too late, and rushing forward, he stuffed the snowball down his friend's jacket.

"Holy shit that's cold!" Alfred exclaimed, swiping another handful off of a bright purple Honda. "You'll pay for that, Williams."

The two proceeded to shove show down each other's coats in a heated battle of will. Alfred, already cold and visibly shaking, rushed at Matthew with an armful of snow, throwing it up in the air and grabbing the Canadian by the shoulder. Matthew, realizing what was about to happen, thrashed in the American's grasp in a desperate bid for freedom before Alfred shoved him into a large mound of snow perched atop a bright blue smart car. The Canadian returned the favour not thirty seconds later, as he slid off the car and sprinted toward the Tim Horton's, shutting the clear glass door firmly behind him and refusing to let Alfred in the building. It was only after he received a stern warning from an agitated cashier that Matthew finally opened the door, laughing as Alfred stumbled into the building.

"No fair," Alfred whined, dusting snow from his jacket and sneezing. "You have home-field advantage."

"You've been here for four and a half years, you dork," Matthew called, already joining one of the three large lines leading to frazzled-looking cashiers.

"I still say you have an advantage," Alfred muttered, coming to stand beside his Canadian counterpart.

Matthew laughed, brushing a lingering clump of snow from Alfred's hair. "You'll live. What are you getting?"

"Coffee, doughnut, sandwich," he replied, glaring haughtily, "And soup. I need to treat myself for hypothermia somehow."

"So get better at snowball fights and you won't have that problem anymore. Well, actually, you still will, because let's face it; there's no way you're going to beat me anytime soon."

"Just you wait, Williams," Alfred cackled, rubbing his hands together menacingly. (Not because he was cold, there was no way he was showing weakness like that.) You'll get what's coming to you. You'll see," he raised his voice in mock proclamation, "You'll all see!"

"Whatever, princess."

"What's that quote from anyway?"

"No clue."

"So you just said it to be dramatic without knowing what the hell you were talking about? Real classy, princess. You're like a budding preteen hipster who just got Facebook."

"I'm a 12year-old girl who does nothing but post Facebook statuses about Beiber and how his music's really deep?"

"Yep."

"Harsh, man. That was uncalled for. Besides, you must read my statuses to know what they're about."

"Touché."

"I hate it when you speak French," Alfred pouted, ducking when Matthew moved to smack him.

"It kind of makes me wonder though," Matthew commented, picking up his own soup and sandwich and laughing as Alfred struggled to balance his own.

"What does?" Alfred replied, half-groaning the words through the spoon he balanced between his teeth.

"The whole business with Craig. I mean, I hate to admit it, but Gilbert may have a point. It is kind of odd how nobody knows what happened."

"Matt," Alfred groaned, dropping his spoon onto the table with a clatter, "Don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll find out eventually. Things are still in their early stages, and they probably haven't finished typing up a notice yet. Just enjoy your lunch."

"Alright," Matthew conceded. "What are you doing after work tonight?"

"Not much. I think I'm going out for a drink with Gary."

"The accounting kid?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied. "Why?"

"I'm just a little surprised," Matthew smiled. "I mean, I see him by the water cooler sometimes, and he just seems really high strung. Like, addicted to his work. I think he was in tears when someone found an error in the general ledger last week. My point is, he's not exactly your type."

"What are you implying?"

"Exactly what you think I'm implying. You're not good with high-strung workaholics."

"But-" Alfred whined,

"All the same," Matthew continued, ignoring Alfred's feeble protests, "I think it's good that you're making friends. Have a fun night out, princess."

"I will, thank you. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll have to find another place to stay for the night."

"Oh," Matthew grinned. "So it's _that_ kind of drink."

"You ass." Alfred groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You know I meant, you're just upset because you haven't had gotten any in months."

"Low blow Jones," Matthew muttered. "Low blow. And I'd like to point out that you're in the same boat as I am at the moment."

"But My luck could change at any time," Alfred grinned, flicking Matthew on the nose.

"Somehow I don't think you're going to be out that long," Matthew commented dryly.

"You're probably right," Alfred sighed. "With Gary as my wingman, I'm going to be taking another cold shower tonight."

"You're gross," Matthew muttered.

"So I'll see you at home then?" Alfred grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, my heart will yearn for your return, princess."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_In which we speculate on the origins of that green blob at the back of the refrigerator, and whether or not it qualifies as alien life._

Alfred and Matthew lived in a small apartment in an old brown building about a block away from Toronto's harbour front. Their apartment was on the fourth floor, and although the elevator worked fine, Matthew would continuously force Alfred to use the stairs. Their door was decorated with a bundle of twigs, leaves, and nuts that had been haphazardly arranged into something that vaguely resembled a wreath. Alfred, who had come home one day to find the monstrosity crudely nailed to their door, believed it needed some minor improvements. The neighbours called it ugly and demanded they take it down. Matthew, who spent a good four hours working on it, called it abstract art and stubbornly defended it's existence, which was probably the only reason it remained on their door.

The inside of the apartment was in a similar state of divided chaos. On one side of their living room, posters of superheroes hung from the walls. On the other, hockey posters fluttered over an old radiator. A gently used flat screen television hung on the wall in the middle. Most of the floor space was take up by a large green couch that clashed beautifully with everything else in the apartment.

Over the years, various trinkets had managed to accumulate along the walls, resulting in rows upon rows of shelves being added. Matthew had insisted on keeping his collection of assorted novels, (many of which had been read and reread so many times the spines were beginning to crumble) and the ratty collection took up a sizeable chunk of the hallway leading toward the bathroom. This unfortunate lack of planning was the cause of many nighttime incidents as Alfred or Matthew attempted to use the facilities and wound up sprawled on the hardwood, mourning the loss of functioning appendages.

Matthew tucked a few loose pine needles back into the loose framework of his wreath as he opened the door to the apartment, grimacing as they fluttered pathetically to the floor. _Really_, his inner voice chided, _why do you even bother?_ Matthew ducked his head in shame as one of the neighbours walked by, absently sweeping the fallen needles under the doorframe. His cheeks burned as a muted chuckle sounded after the retreating person's frame.

Matt hurriedly slipped into the apartment, flicking a light switch and sighing in relief when the fluorescent hallway lights clicked on. He'd insisted on installing environmentally friendly lighting throughout the apartment, even going as far as to attempt rewiring one of Alfred's favourite lamps to accommodate the environmental bulbs. That little adventure hadn't gone nearly as well as Matthew had hoped, and Alfred had come home to find the Canadian sobbing hysterically over the shattered pieces of the porcelain lamp, smelling of smoke and burnt bacon. While the American was initially consumed by his shock at the lamp's sudden demise, he quickly finished mourning when he realized the burnt-bacon smell wasn't going away, and was in fact coming from Matthew.

Six hours and two second degree burns later, Matthew and Alfred were laughing in the warm summer air outside the Emergency Ward of Mount Sinai Hospital. Matthew, with both hands heavily bandaged and slightly inebriated from the painkillers, had glanced up at the darkened sky, spotted a plane amongst the stars, and attempted to convince everyone around him that he had seen a UFO. Alfred, laughing hysterically, had taken Matthew back the apartment, but only after he filmed several minutes of the Canadian's half-crazed ramblings.

Matthew had eventually taken the lamp to a specialist (or rather, an elderly man in Chinatown who claimed he could fix anything) and had been delighted to get it back a week later with all the pottery sealed together with neon orange epoxy. The wiring had been removed, but Alfred, having already dismissed the lamp as a lost cause, had been delighted to get it back nonetheless. The non-functional lamp was returned to a cozy end table beside the front door, where it would be destined to hold keys and clash with the wallpaper for the remainder of its existence.

Matthew tossed his keys into the lamp, watching absently as they clattered and settled in the concave shade. His stomach rumbled angrily, prompting him to wander toward the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door and glancing at the mostly-barren contents inside. Half a bottle of maple syrup, a jar of pickles, one cucumber, and a mysterious green blob heaped in the far back corner greeted his tired gaze. Matthew briefly wondered what the blob could be, even going as far to poke it with an unfortunate fork that happened to be within arm's reach, and upon seeing the result (it _moved_, holy crap that's not supposed to happen, what the fuck do they make food out of these days?) quickly decided that some things were better left alone.

The sharp rustling of keys in the lock alerted the Canadian to Alfred's presence. Not seconds later, the American strode into the kitchen, tossing his wallet on the counter and flopping listlessly into a chair.

"You're back early," Matthew exclaimed, setting the jar of pickles on the counter warily.

"Yeah, Gary bailed on me."

"Ooh, ouch," Matt chuckled, grabbing a lonesome form laying innocently on the counter and stabbing at a pickle. "Ditched by Gary. What's he doing instead?"

"No idea. Just said something came up, and he hoped we could do dinner some other time. Then he rushed off." Alfred eyed Matthew warily, inching his chair away discreetly. "Is that all we have to eat?"

"Yeah," Matthew grunted, crowing in success as he lifted a shriveled pickle out of the jar. "Why, you want any?"

"I'll pass," Alfred groaned, turning away in disgust as the Canadian began to chomp on the green mass.

Suddenly, Matthew began coughing, rushing to the kitchen sink and spitting chunks of pickle into the sink.

Alfred raised a questioning eyebrow, scooting his chair far enough back that it hit the wall behind him.

Gasping for breath, Matthew turned to face him. "I think that was the same fork that touched the blob."

"The blob?" Alfred questioned. "Do I want to know?"

"That green thing in the back of the fridge."

"Oh," Alfred replied nonchalantly, "that's just Tony."

"Excuse me?" Matthew growled, spitting in the sink once more for good measure.

"Well," Alfred groaned sheepishly, "I kind of saw it there a week ago, and I figured it's pretty much a new life form, like an alien or something. So I have him and name, hence Tony."

"You knew we had fridge fungus, and instead of cleaning it out like a normal human being, you decided to give it a name and let it grow?"

"Well, it could have-" Alfred argued, wincing as Matthew cut him off.

"I bet you've been watering it too. I wouldn't put it past you." Matthew groaned before dumping the remaining pickles into the sink. "Now I have to wash the whole batch. I don't want to throw these out, because frankly we can't afford any more, not with how _someone_, " he paused, glaring at Alfred haughtily, "keeps forgetting to pay his share of the rent. But I'm not eating contaminated pickles, no matter how broke we are."

The sound of angered scrubbing filled the small room as Matthew began scrubbing at the pickles. Alfred made to creep away, but was stopped by a sharp reprimand ringing out through the silent kitchen. "Don't you dare. You're getting your sorry ass back here and ordering us some take out. And we're getting Chinese, because I don't want to be near anything remotely related to pickles for the next week. And then," he added, voice softening a bit, "we can play halo, if you want?"

Alfred grinned, ruffling the Matthew's hair. "Sure thing. And sorry about Tony, uh, I mean the blob, I didn't think it would bother you that much."

"Don't sweat it. I'm over it now. Today was just really stressful."

"Aw, muffin. Is the real world too much for a little hipster like you? Maybe you want to go back to art school and learn to take crappy pictures nobody will really care about? You could post them on Facebook with that creepy collection of selfies you took in our bathroom mirror two years ago."

"Shut up. It was just a phase. Besides, my…uh, pictures… don't even come close to those movies you made last year."

The movies in question were a series of homemade superhero thrillers in which Alfred had starred as a myriad of characters, the most memorable being a Lois-Lane type stock-character who appeared in several of his productions. Matthew had found one of the recordings, popped it in the DVD player, and proceeded to laugh his head off for a good two hours as Alfred looked on, shamefaced.

Then Matthew had invited the rest of their suitemates for an evening of drinking and movies, and they had proceeded to watch every one of Alfred's productions, much to the American's eternal shame. Yes, Matthew was a bit of an ass in University. He still is, really, but Alfred has adapted enough in their four years of friendship to realize that the only way to put Matthew in his place is to fight fire with fire. And so he makes up for Matthew's occasional misbehavior with unpleasant surprises of his own, the most recent being Tony.

By the time the two had calmed down from their intense game of Halo, in which Alfred had saved Matthew from certain death multiple times (and rubbed it in, as tradition dictated), it was nearly midnight. Not wanting to deal with Gilbert's obnoxious antics without at least eight hours' sleep, Matthew rolled off the couch, shuffling off to his bedroom. "Don't stay up too late, princess. I don't want to deal with your complaints in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah," Alfred mumbled, switching to single-player mode absently. "I'll be fine."

The following morning, Alfred was not nearly as 'fine' as he had predicted. After stumbling out of bed, tripping over the bookshelf on the way to the bathroom (again), and spilling an entire pot of freshly brewed coffee over his suit, he decided that today was a lost cause. Matthew rolled out of bed a good half hour later, and upon seeing the state of disarray Alfred was in, promptly suggested they go to Tim Hortons.

Alfred couldn't help but think that Tim Horton's had somehow hired Matthew as an advertising consultant, since getting coffee was his default suggestion whenever times got tough.

After a heart breakfast of coffee and doughnuts (bagels for Matthew, as he continuously insisted he was trying to eat healthy and he wasn't some fat Texan for Christ's sake) Alfred strode through the swinging glass doors leading to his department. Settling down in his cubicle and bidding farewell to Matthew, he turned on his computer and shuffled the loose papers in a report that had been left on his desk. He would be productive today, god damn it.

Not a second later, he turned away from his desk; enthusiastically waving good morning to the irate Englishman that stomped into their cubicle.

Fuck work. He had other shit to do.

"Morning Artie," Alfred chirped, spinning in his chair casually. To Arthur, he looked like an overly enthusiastic Labrador. Look Arthur, Look! I can be a good dog, pay attention to me! He really wasn't far off the mark.

"Arthur," Alfred whined, "Say something. Come on, you know you want to. Just say good morning. Or crumpets. British people love crumpets!"

Arthur sighed. So it was going to be one of _those_ days. "Alfred, would you please shut your bleeding trap! I'm trying to work, and your obnoxious chatter is certainly not helping my migraine."

"Sure thing, Artie" Alfred winked, turning back to his desk. "Oh, by the way," he added, "Matt and I got this for you. I hope you like Earl Grey." He handed Arthur a medium cup of tea, grinning merrily when the Englishman gave him a tired smile.

"Thanks Alfred. You always manage to make mornings a little more bearable, even if you do have an unusual way of doing do."

"Welcome, man." Alfred replied, "You're not so bad yourself."

"Yes, well," Arthur huffed, "Let's get this done, shall we?"

Alfred didn't make it out of the cubicle until noon. He had planned to grab lunch with Gilbert, Matt, and Arthur at the cafeteria, but Scott had walked by and insisted that Alfred give him a copy of the report he'd been working on. Arthur had patted his back sympathetically as he left to join Matthew and Gilbert. Scott kept Alfred right where he was, impatiently telling the American just why it was critical that he had a copy _immediately._ After ten minutes of ill-guided advice, Alfred had politely excused himself to go pick up his file from the printer.

He was just outside the secluded room that housed the only printer in their department (which, more often than not, was out of toner and fuck if he knew how to fix that) when an unusual smell startled him.

A million likely sources came to mind, namely that Tony ('The Blob') had adapted to his new home, grown legs, and followed him to work. What greeted him as he entered the room, however, was an entirely different reality.

Lying limp against the photocopier, arms splayed across the floor and covered in blood, lay Jeff, the accounting manager. Alfred opened his mouth and screamed.

Matthew was in the cafeteria with Gilbert and Arthur when he heard the sirens. At first he thought nothing of it, but when the double doors leading back toward the rows of cubicles were suddenly forced open, he knew something bad had happened.

A team of police officers strode through the doors, their footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent cafeteria.

"Your attention please." The large cop in the center announced, glancing around the room at the countless upturned faces. Matthew chuckled quietly. As if anyone was going to speak up after that entrance.

"It is my unfortunate duty to inform you of an incident that was discovered in the building not long ago. Due to the severity of the situation, I'm afraid I can't allow any of you to leave this room until the scene is processed. If anyone has any information of suspicious nature regarding Jeffrey Henderson, please come forward now."

Nobody moved. If a fly were to have flown through the room, Matthew was sure everyone would be able to hear it.

"Alright then," the officer continued, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of response from his audience. "If any of you see anything suspicious, please report it to me or any one of my colleagues. I'm sorry for the inconvenience this investigation may cause you, but I must remind you that your cooperation with these measures is essential. I will let you know when it has been deemed safe for you to leave." With that, he turned on his heel and strode back through the doors, leaving two of his troupe to guard the doors. From his position by the window, Matthew could see several police cars in the parking lot with countless other investigators milling about them.

Gilbert nudged him in the side. "Did you see his gun?" he asked excitedly, practically bouncing in his seat. "Something big must have happened if they're bringing in the heavy artillery."

"Gilbert," Arthur reasoned, "They're cops. They are required to carry a firearm when on duty. For all you know, someone could have forgotten to pay a parking ticket."

"No," Matthew mumbled, "because if someone had done something minor like that, they wouldn't have to lock down the building."

"Lock down?" Arthur sputtered, glancing at Matthew in shock. "What makes you think-"

"-Look outside," Matthew countered, motioning to the window. Arthur and Gilbert leaned forward in their chairs, eyes widening as they saw the multitude of flashing lights at the foot of the building.

"Well shit," Gilbert murmured, eyes flicking back to the two officers guarding the doors.

"Blimey," Arthur agreed. "It seems we're really in trouble this time, lads."

The quiet mutterings around them began steadily increasing in volume as people began speculating on the appearance of the police. A siren wailed in the distance and grew progressively louder until a black hummer stopped in the parking lot next to the squad cars. By now, everyone in the cafeteria had gravitated toward the window, anxious to see the new arrival. Matthew squinted through the glass, trying to get a good view of the events unfolding several floors below them and wincing as an unknown employee accidentally elbowed him in the shoulder.

A man in a jet-black suit exited the car and began barking orders at the surrounding officers. Judging by the hasty response he received, Matthew assumed he was in charge somehow. He strode into the building and out of sight, an entourage of several officers trailing behind him. The remaining cops continued to patrol the parking lot, presumably waiting for an unknown villain to come bursting out of a fire door or something.

Wincing as he was elbowed again –this time by an irate woman who looked as though she lived on nothing but caffeine- Matthew pulled his head out from the thick mass of bodies and away from the window.

"What's going on?" Gilbert asked, eyes flicking back to the cops by the door again. They looked unsure as to whether they should remain where they were or begin herding people away from the window. Eventually they settled on the former, warily watching the employees ('or suspects,' Matthew thought bitterly.)

"I'm not sure," Matthew replied, turning to face Gilbert and Arthur once more. "There's a guy in a suit –maybe a commander or something, if they have those in police forces- who just got out of the car. He just came into the building. It doesn't look good, by the way. There are seven or eight squad cars parked in the front lot, and police are everywhere. It's like someone's been murdered or something."

A hush settled over the cafeteria as several sets of eyes turned to face the Canadian. He meekly ducked his head, cheeks reddening. He stayed like that until the chatter started up again, though he couldn't help but notice that the section of window closest to him had been completely vacated.

"Well, that cleared them away," Gilbert muttered, looking around in awe. "But you might want to watch what you say. I mean, I know I'm not the king of subtlety," he remarked, shooting Matthew a wry glance, "But I'm smart enough not to use the M-word after our office has been taken over by law enforcement."

"He's got a point," Arthur added. "Now, I suggest we quell this suspicious talk before our two friends in black over there," he nodded in the direction of the two police officers, both of whom were watching the trio with rapt attention, "get any more ideas."

The words had just left his mouth when one of the officers began to walk their way, parting the crowd of office workers like a shark would a school of fish. And Matthew, who had gone very pale all of a sudden, could only swallow shakily as the cop nodded at him, reached his chair, and politely requested that the Canadian come with him, please, and not make a fuss. Matthew could only nod wordlessly as he was led away, the stares of his coworkers burning a hole in his back.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_In which we learn that both Alfred and Matthew are pansies who crumble after the mildest form of intimidation and as an added bonus, we get to see them cry. Multiple times._

Alfred shivered as he was led down a long grey hallway. He knew exactly where he was going: the only room at the end of the corridor was a mid-sized conference room, used mainly by the accounting geeks who wanted to feel important when they ate lunch. He couldn't find it in himself to laugh as he was led through the small translucent door, the muffled click of the lock echoing in his ears long after it had silenced.

The officer who had led him to the room remained in the corner behind him, pistol in plain view. Alfred almost laughed as the cop traced his fingers over the black handle. As if Alfred would go anywhere. He pulled slightly on the handcuffs that bound his wrists behind his back. Not fucking likely.

He raised his gaze to meet that of the man sitting at the end of the conference table. The man wore a black suit that contrasted starkly with his pale features. His eyes were a cold blue, nearly indigo. The most frightening attribute of the man was his size. He was massive, taking up the entirety of the chair and towering over the conference table. After a few moments of silence, he spoke.

"Do you know why you are here?"

Alfred gave a strangled cough. The man had a Russian accent. A motherfucking Russian accent. Perfect. Just how terrifying (and cliché) did this man get? After swallowing profusely, Alfred managed to get the courage to speak. "I uh, found his body, I guess?" He chuckled weakly, stiffening as the Russian gave him an unamused glare.

"Is that the only reason you believe you are here?"

"W-Well, yeah," Alfred muttered, staring determinately at the table. "I mean, I didn't do anything, I was just going to print and then I smelled something horrible and then I saw him and-"

"That's enough," the behemoth growled, clasping his hands together before him. "Did you use the printer or any of the equipment in the printing room?"

"No!" Alfred exclaimed, shocked. "Why would I do that?"

"Take off the cuffs, please." The Russian growled, nodding at the officer behind Alfred. Seconds later, the American felt the warmed metal slide from his wrists. He absently rubbed them, glancing at the large man before him.

"Now, Alfred," he continued, smirking slightly at the shocked look on the American's face. "Yes, I know your name. My coworkers briefed me on my arrival. We're just going to take a few fingerprints. Your cooperation is not necessary, though I strongly recommend it." He pulled some loose papers and a small case from the briefcase on the floor beside him, setting them on the table.

"Sure, it's cool." Alfred stuttered nervously. The officer who had removed the cuffs opened the case, reveling an ink-soaked pad. Taking Alfred's left hand, he rolled all five fingers in the ink, stamping each one on the appropriately marked papers. He repeated the process on the other hand, being sure to take several prints of Alfred's thumbs.

"Now then," the Russian continued. "Let's get down to business. You know very well what you saw in that room. It is my goal to find the person responsible and hold them accountable for their actions, but as it stands, you are the only witness we have. I wish for you to tell me everything you can in response to my questioning. I am going to presume that you are speaking the truth, though you have been warned that what you say can and will be used against you in a court of law if it is discovered that you are omitting facts or neglecting to tell the full truth. If you wish not to say anything more, you have the right. However, I would strongly recommend that you cooperate."

Alfred nodded his assent. "Very good," the man nodded. "I hope will be able to solve this mystery, Alfred."

"Me too," Alfred agreed, relaxing minutely in his seat. "Um, sir?" he asked after a moment, feeling ridiculous.

"Yes Alfred?"

"Do you have a name? That is, something I can call you?"

"Ah yes, my apologies. I am commander Braginski of the Peel Regional Police, but you may call me Ivan."

"Alright Ivan," Alfred grinned, feeling some of his past confidence returning. "Let's solve a mystery."

Shortly after Alfred finished his interview with the commander, Matthew was brought to the same room. However, he was given a much cooler welcome.

"Sit down," the commander barked, sighing impatiently as Matthew struggled to get comfortable with his hands secured behind his back. "I'm just trying to –ah- sit with these stupid cuffs." Matthew muttered, eyes on the floor as he continued shifting in the seat. The officer who had accompanied him moved to stand directly behind him, causing the Canadian to still his actions. Commander Braginski shuffled his papers, gaze hardening when he realized he had caught Matthew's attention.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Yes," Matthew growled. (What the _fuck_ was that accent? Russian? He sounded like a Soviet version of the fucking terminator, for fuck's sake.) "But you have to listen to me!" he continued earnestly. "I'm not a murderer, for fuck's sake." His cheeks paled and his mouth clicked shut upon realizing what he had said.

The commander raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Uh," Matthew whispered, "Can we omit that last part? I don't think I'm supposed to swear at cops."

Ivan smirked to himself. The kid clearly had no idea what he was doing. Just glancing at the shaking blonde in the chair across from him confirmed the commander's suspicions. Getting what he wanted from the Canadian would be easy. "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law," Ivan barked. "You have the right to remain silent, though I do not recommend it, Matthew Williams." His voice dropped to a purr, watching as the Canadian visibly flinched.

Matthew paled farther, if that was possible, at the mention of his name. His mouth flapped uselessly as he gaped at the commander. "W-what? How do you know my name?"

"I have my sources," the commander smirked, thankful that that Alfred had been so open when describing his co-workers. The snarky blonde in front of him fit Alfred's description perfectly. If the American had been telling the truth, Matthew was no threat. But still, he was determined to see for himself. Even now however, he had to admit that the Canadian was far from ideal criminal material. Matthew didn't have the skills, knowledge, or courage to be a murderer, as was obvious just by looking at him. Alfred's testimony only enhanced this conclusion. Still, Ivan resigned himself to interrogating every likely suspect, no matter how docile or frail they looked. Besides, it was amusing to see the Canadian's reaction to his questioning.

"So," he continued, "care to explain why you knew about the murder when our sources tell us that only two people knew of the crime?"

"Two people knew about the murder?" Matthew exclaimed, completely ignoring the commander's question.

"Yes. The man who discovered the body, and the person who called us. Last time I checked, you were not one of those two people. So how did you know that a murder took place?"

"Well," Matthew swallowed, eyes flicking nervously to the guard by the door. The officer behind his chair had yet to move, and their presence was beginning to put him on edge. "Two of your officers stormed into the cafeteria, and everyone started speculating. I was closest to the window and had a clear view of all the squad cars in the parking lot. And, you know," he added nervously, "it wasn't hard to guess. I mean, armed officers burst into the cafeteria. That doesn't happen if someone forgets to pay a parking ticket." He almost smiled, recalling his conversation with Arthur and Gilbert.

Ivan chuckled, relishing at the way Matthew seemed to shrink at the noise. The kid (for Matthew was a kid in his eyes. No one his age would speak to a cop with the mixture of terror and irritation that the Canadian seemed so prone to using) had quite the backbone. If only he was guilty –breaking him would be fun.

"Well Matthew, you're lucky your friend was able to vouch for you. Normally I would be much more thorough with my investigation. We are far from finished, but I believe that you can relax. It seems we are on the same team right now."

Matthew slumped in his chair, chuckling weakly. "Oh, okay," he murmured shakily, "glad that's cleared up then."

"We're not done here," the commander replied, motioning for the officer standing behind the Canadian to remove his handcuffs. "I'm going to need to fingerprint you, and there are many questions that still require answers. I hope you can help provide me with the information I need, Mr. Williams. Please remember that we have no leads on the case so far, and while we have plant of detectives searching this building from top to bottom for any sort of clue, the best information often comes from those with no police training whatsoever."

"Alright," Matthew conceded. "What do you want to know?"

"You are certainly eager," Ivan chuckled. "And yet we haven't even been properly introduced. I am commander Ivan Braginski.

"I'm Matth –oh, right. You know who I am." Matthew blushed, ducking his head in embarrassment.

Ivan couldn't help but chuckle as well. "Yes, well, I suppose you're right. We should get down to business. You don't mind that my associate will be taking your fingerprints while we speak?"

"No," Matthew shook his head, feeling as though he didn't actually have a choice in the matter. To be fair, he was right.

"Then let's get down to business."

Matthew didn't stop to think about his interview until he arrived back at the apartment several hours later. The commander had questioned him for a good two hours, the topics ranging from daily life to eating habits to office rivalries. In short, it was a very grueling experience. At the end of the interview, Ivan had handed him a small white card with instructions to call him should he remember anything else of importance.

The Canadian had scarcely walked through the door when Alfred had slammed into him, shoving him up against the wall as he peered into the Canadian's eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked frantically, releasing his friend and stepping back a bit. "I heard they were questioning people, and they hadn't found who did it yet and the whole building was locked down –Christ Matt, I was so_ worried_."

He turned away running a hand through his short blonde hair as he tried to calm himself down. "I've been waiting here for hours, and all Gilbert and Artie could tell me was that a cop had taken you somewhere because you mouthed off –Really Matt? Really? You _had _to mouth off at the worst possible moment, didn't you? Anyway, they're still in the building, the police haven't listed the lockdown, nobody had seen you for hours…" he trailed off. "I'm glad you're alright."

Matthew gave him a rueful smile as he made his way over to the couch. "Sorry man, I didn't mean to worry you. But have some faith. I can handle myself."

"Yeah," Alfred snorted. I can totally see you surviving an attack by a homicidal maniac."

"I was probably in more danger of being arrested," Matthew remarked, sighing in bliss as he sank into the overstuffed lime green cushions. "I was sitting next to Gilbert when the cops showed up."

"And you think you'd do better in jail?" Alfred exclaimed, settling next to him. "Face it Matt, you've got jailbait written all over you."

"Up yours Jones. At least I'd make it to jail. You'd probably have a nervous breakdown before they got through their investigation."

"Well actually," Alfred, mumbled, ducking his head. "You're not far off the mark there."

"What?" Matthew exclaimed anxiously. "Did you do something? Did you see the killer? God Alfred, did he come after you? Why were you being interrogated?" He paused, a sudden though occurring to him. "Where the hell were you? You were home before I was, and I'm pretty sure I was the only employee to leave the building since the lunch rush. What happened?

Alfred averted his eyes, staring determinedly at the floor. Noticing his change in attitude, Matthew shifted closer, wordlessly gesturing for Alfred to continue.

"Well, I kind of found the body," he managed to choke out, giving a weak chuckle that quickly trailed off to silence.

A stony silence flooded the room, thickening the air with tension. After a long pause, Matthew spoke.

"You found a body?" he whispered, not bringing his eyes up from the floor.

"Yeah." Alfred mumbled. "It wasn't pretty."

Another stagnant silence filled the room. Alfred shifted before standing up. "I think I'm going to take a nap," he murmured, still avoiding the Canadian's gaze. Matthew rose and trailed after him, unsure of what to do.

"You going to be alright?"

"I don't know," Alfred sighed shakily, doing his best to smile. He quickly stopped upon seeing the pained look on Matthew's face. "I look like a train wreck, don't I?"

"A bit," Matthew conceded. "But that's alright. Let's face it; I've seen you looking a lot worse. And I don't even want to know what state I was in when you picked me up from the grad party."

That managed to elicit a small smile out of the American. Matthew almost cheered at the progress. "Tell you what. I'll make dinner while you take your nap, and then we can spend the night eating, playing Monopoly, and arguing over who gets to be the banker. Sound good?

"Sounds perfect," Alfred agreed, giving Matthew another tiny smile before heading down the hall (narrowly avoiding the bookshelf this time) to his room.

Matthew returned to the kitchen to cook before realizing that once again, they had forgotten to buy groceries. As an added bonus, the androgynous blob (he refused to give it a name, because that was just creepy no matter what Alfred thought) had turned a lovely shade of blue and expanded outward by at least an inch. Matthew contemplated cleaning it out before deciding against it. Alfred seemed to like the fucker, so he would get the privilege of cleaning it up. With that problem solved, he picked up the phone book and flipped through to the page marked 'chicken' with a purple post-it note.

It was nearly 7pm when Alfred woke from his nap, stumbling blearily into the small kitchen and grinning brightly at the sight of two large Swiss Chalet containers steaming on the counter.  
>"Thanks man, you rock." He cheered, grabbing a random assortment of knives and forks from a drawer. Matthew hummed in reply, doling the chicken onto two plates and whacking Alfred with a fork as he attempted to snatch a fry.<p>

"Felling better?" Matthew asked, settling down at the table and motioning for Alfred to do the same.  
>"Yeah, I just needed some sleep. It's been a rough day, you know?"<p>

"Mm," Matthew agreed. "Do you want to, you know, talk about it?" He looked at Alfred hopefully, asking out of both curiosity and genuine concern.

"Alright. I mean, Ivan gave me the number for a grief counsellor," he stopped, breathing shakily before continuing, "but I think you'd probably be a better sounding board."

"Matthew smiled gently, gesturing for the American to continue. At this point, he didn't know what to say. The mention of a grief counselor made him assume the worst, although Alfred looked surprisingly composed. The best he could do, he reasoned, was listen.

Alfred seemed to sense this, as he took another shaking breath before beginning. "You guys had gone to lunch, but Scott held me back to photocopy a memo or something. Like, I don't even remember what it was, or why I was doing it. All I know is, I walked into the copying room," Alfred paused, trying to compose himself before continuing. "And before I even got in the door, I knew something was wrong. There was this horrible smell. I can't describe it Matt. It smelled like death."

Matthew's eyes, wide and globular, were fixated on the American's face, disbelief and concern marring his pale features. Alfred sensing the Canadian's concern, smiled weakly. To Matthew, it looked heartbreaking.

And then Alfred began to describe the scene inside the copying room. When the American described the corpse, putting a name to what had once been an ambiguous figure, the Canadian could no longer listen. He rose shakily from his chair before bolting toward the kitchen sink and vomiting up what little dinner he had managed to eat. Alfred came to stand beside him, pulling back Matthew's wavy hair and rubbing his back consolingly.

Neither Alfred nor Matt were personal friends with Jeff. The accounting manager had stuck mainly to his own department, rarely socializing with the younger employees. This wasn't entirely his fault, as none of the fresh (and therefore easily abused) employees wanted anything to do with him. Their aversion to the accounting manager was not born of any ill-will, but rather a fear that should they somehow displease the accounting manager, there would be hell to pay. Younger employees were often treated as slave labour, condemned to the bowels of the building to write reports nobody would read. A visit from a higher employee meant something had to be changed, cut, or finished in half an hour, or someone's salary would be cut. (Of course, they couldn't actually cut a salary without good reason. They could however take away your monthly bonus. For the rag-tag collection of adults fresh out of university, this was enough of a threat to keep them from acting out in anyway. A depressing truth for hipsters and freedom-lovers everywhere.)

Still, regardless of Jeff's relative anonymity, both Alfred and Matthew were incredibly upset by his untimely passing.

After they had washed out the sink, Matthew suggested that they put the leftover chicken away. Truthfully, neither man had taken more than a few bites from their dinner anyway. After returning the chicken to it's plastic container, Matthew placed it in the refrigerator, making sure to shift it as far away from the blob as possible.

Alfred's recollection of the day's events continued some fifteen minutes later, when he and Matthew reconvened on the couch. Matthew was shocked to find that Alfred had willingly given out his personal information to the police, especially when he was suspected for the murder, but after hearing the full story, he was able to calm down somewhat. Ivan had finished his discussion with Alfred shortly before Matthew had been taken in for his interrogation. The commander had spoken freely about the murder, restricting only a few personal details for the sake of professionalism. And in return, Alfred had shared stories of daily office life, discussing at great length his relationships with friends and coworkers.

Matthew couldn't help but think that Alfred's main motivation was his desire to live out a hero-fantasy. Said fantasy had been created in high school after watching an old batman movie, and somehow survived through university, resulting in the creation of a hero-complex that would likely stick with Alfred for life. However, throughout his recollection of his experience, Alfred never mentioned any form of intimidation from the police. Matthew, who had been thoroughly cowed by the Russian commanders cold demeanor, found this to be suspicious, not to mention unfair.

"So the commander didn't intimidate you at all?" Matthew exclaimed, slapping the table in frustration.

"Nope," Alfred grinned. "Well, not on purpose. I mean, he did have that whole 'evil commie' aura around him when we first met."

"Evil commie aura?"

"He was really scary, okay?" Alfred whined, smacking Matt in the shoulder. "He had that badass accent and I was the closest thing they had to a witness and he's fucking huge, if you haven't noticed."

Matthew let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah, I might have noticed that. But you had it easy. I mean, when I was l led in there I thought he was going to tear my head off."  
>"But," Alfred pointed out, "You were caught yelling about murder in front a of room of witnesses, not to mention the two cops keeping you company."<p>

"I wasn't yelling," Matthew defended irately. "I just voiced an opinion, which happened to be correct, I might add. And I'll admit it wasn't the smartest move, but I can live with the consequences. I don't think I'm their prime suspect."

"And how do you know that?" Alfred asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, Ivan pretty much told me so. He seemed to think I wasn't capable. I think he realized that I was a waste of time 30 seconds after they brought me in."

"What did he say?"

"That you vouched for me, and that I didn't have the attitude of a killer. I think that was his way of letting me down gently. I'm pretty sure he was deliberately trying to scare me by the end of it."

"Aw, muffin. Even the investigators don't take you seriously. I think you're losing your touch." Alfred cackled, reaching to ruffle Matt's hair like one would a petulant child.

"Just you wait, Jones." Matthew growled menacingly. "If I do snap, you're first on my list."

"I can't wait."

_ I have a review :) Thank you. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_In which a plot is hatched, and it is confirmed that our two so-called heroes are impervious to the logic of our so-called society. Good for them._

It was discovered, after an unpleasant 6am phone call to their apartment, that Alfred and Matt would not be going to work in the morning. They had been told that all employees had been given the day off, and were to return to the office only when they had been notified that the building was cleared of evidence. Less than an hour later, they received another call, this one coming from Commander Braginski himself, requesting that they meet him at the downtown police headquarters. They were given strict instructions as to when they should arrive, and were advised not to leave their apartment until then.

And so, after an uneventful morning in which nothing was accomplished, Alfred and Matthew left their apartment to meet the commander. A vote was held to determine whether stopping for Tim Horton's was necessary, and it was unanimously decided that they couldn't hope to give a good testimony on empty stomachs.

The line was crossed, however, when Matthew attempted to justify ordering a full breakfast. And so Alfred and Matthew arrived at the Toronto police headquarters fifteen minutes later than they were expected. While they knew they were late, they were not expecting the commander's angered tirade when they strode into the station.

"What do you think you're doing?" he nearly shouted, having brought both men to an interrogation room far away from the prying eyes of his coworkers.

Matthew was the first to recover from the commander's outburst, having maintained a healthy grudge (mainly because he had been sent home looking like a whipped puppy) after their last meeting.

"Well I don't know about you, but I was getting coffee because I spent the entire morning in an apartment with absolutely no food in it, because I couldn't go grocery shopping thanks to your stupid orders. I think I deserve this cup, thanks."

The commander looked slightly taken aback, though the look was quickly replaced with one of anger. "I don't think you understand your position here, Mr. Williams. Regardless of Alfred's testimony, you are still a suspect. You yelled about murder in front of countless employees, and we have yet to find any evidence proving that you were not involved. I am trying to work with you, but you are making things very difficult."

"Hold up a minute," Alfred interjected. "You still suspect Matt? Excuse me, but what the hell, man? Matt's a fucking pacifist most of the time. All talk and no action, until you get him on the ice. Then he's a monster. But not until then. You've got the wrong guy."

"Alfred," Ivan growled. "I know very well that it is unlikely that he is a murderer. I wouldn't be in this room, talking with you as I am, if I had even the slightest suspicion about him. There was nothing at the crime scene that would incriminate him. However, I cannot rule anyone out, and he is proving to be very hostile." He smirked lightly, "Not that it isn't a pleasant change from the pathetic mess I dealt with yesterday. How does it feel, being castrated?"

Matthew's mouth opened wordlessly as Alfred let out a little chuckle.

"Bad move, man. Not smart at all." The American smiled wryly.

Matthew, meanwhile, had turned an interesting shade of maroon. From looking at his face, one could tell he was trying very hard not to strangle the officer in front of him. The fear of being accused of two murders in as many days was probably the only thing stopping him.

Ivan lat out a throaty laugh, "Poor little man. He looks conflicted, wouldn't you say?"

"FRENCH SWEARING." Matthew screeched, gripping the table with whitened fingers. "Is there a point to this meeting, or should I just leave?"

"Alright," Ivan chuckled. "I suppose we should get down to business. I believe that you to are the key to this mystery. You each hold a wealth of knowledge on the inner workings of your office, and more importantly, the people in it."

Wait," Matthew cautioned. "You want us to rat out our friends?"

"No," Ivan growled. "I want you to bring me information on any suspicious behavior you happen to come across. Any grudges, rivalries, threats you come across. If someone's going to the washroom more often than usual, I want to hear about it." Catching Matthew's look of belief, the commander continued. "My suspicions are not unfounded. The evidence we have gathered points to an inside job, and by an inexperienced killer no less."

"What evidence?" Alfred asked excitedly, perking up in his chair. "What should we look for? How do you know it's an inside job?"

"You should know," Ivan murmured, leveling the American with a cold gaze. ``You saw the victim."

Jeff. Although he didn't say anything out loud, Alfred couldn't help but correct the commander in his head. The idea of stripping a man of his identity after death, leaving nothing but a shell to be dissected and investigated, repulsed him.

"I didn't really want to uh, investigate." Alfred mumbled, glancing away. "There was a lot of blood." He shuddered.

"Matthew shot Ivan a murderous glare. The Russian had the decency to look somewhat apologetic before continuing, softer this time. "I understand that you are not a trained investigator, and that Jeff's murder has upset you. Have you thought about seeing the specialist?"

"Nah," Alfred muttered. "I'll be alright. Matt's been looking out for me and dealing with my various neuroses for years." He shot his friend a grateful smile.

Matthew smiled back, motioning for Ivan to continue.

"You are lucky to have each other. Now, I'm going to give Matthew more of a foundation for my suspicions, as I'm sure he's a little fed up with being left in the dark. We've tortured him enough this morning."

"Thank you," Matthew sighed, leaning forward attentively.

"Don't get used to it," Ivan grumbled. "Now, the victim was found in the copy room, with several knife wounds to the chest and abdomen. Signs of a struggle were apparent, though in the end the victim was subdued by means of a gaping chest wound. We have determined that the killer confronted the victim when he was copying a memo. We have the document in our collection of possible evidence, although we have examined it and determined that it is not relevant to the case. The victim must have seen the killer before the first strike, as all of the injuries he sustained were to his front. The killer was messy in his work, and clearly lacked the finesse exhibited by experienced killers. We believe that he less powerful physically, as all injuries have been classified as stab wounds. There is no evidence of a struggle, which leads me to believe that the murderer relied heavily on his knife to subdue his victim and could not win in a physical confrontation."

"So basically, you're saying that we're looking for a little guy who carries a knife and has beef with the accounting manager," Alfred clarified.

"Not quite. We believe that there may be a connection between this murder, and the murder of another employee over the weekend.

"You mean Craig?" Matthew gasped, recalling Gilbert's suspicion.

"Yes. Mr. Lavalle was found dead in his home, having been murdered in the same manor as Mr. Henderson. Multiple stab wounds, very messy, no clues. I take it," he glanced at Matthew, "that you know something about this."

"Not really, no." Matthew stammered. "See, I was talking with one of my friends," Ivan raised an eyebrow, seeing through the feeble attempt at censorship and prompting Matthew to elaborate.

"So I was talking with Gilbert, the guy who I share a cubicle with. He's the one who told me about Craig. Anyway, we started speculating on what happened to him, since we never got any notice that something had happened. We only knew about the death because of gossip. I guess Gilbert heard it through the grapevine. Anyway, we started talking, trying to figure out what had happened. Gilbert raised the suggestion of murder. I thought he was just bull shitting me, like he usually does. Knowing Gilbert, he probably didn't put any thought into the accusation at all. Probably watched too much CSI. But I got paranoid and told him to shut up. Man," he shook his head ruefully, "I'm a hypocrite."

Alfred meanwhile, had taken to fiddling uselessly with the hem of his dress shirt, anxiously working the material between shaking fingers.

"So there's a killer out in our building." He stated, averting his eyes. "And he's killed two innocent people so far."

Matthew and Ivan stopped their conversation, turning to face the American.

Ivan spoke first. "Yes. That is why we need to stop them."

"And what of their families?" Alfred whispered.

"We do this to bring some sense of closure to the victims' loved ones," Ivan responded curtly. "As well as to protect the rest of the employees –and the public- from the same fate. That is more than enough closure for the families."

Alfred made a noncommittal sound. Than, after leveling Ivan with a hard gaze, he responded. "So what do we have to do?"

Ivan relaxed. "It is simple. Go back to work, and listen in on any suspicious conversations. Report anything that seems out of place. Just keep your ears open –it's all we can ask of you."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we will have to try something else. However, I am not willing to involve you more than I already have. You will remain in place as informants, though I am using the term lightly. Your coworkers have been encouraged to report any suspicious behavior and to come forward with any information they might have. However, this does not mean that they will. It is up to you to unearth any truths that would otherwise go by unnoticed. And above all, you must maintain the secrecy of your role in the investigation. You are not heroes, nor are you detectives. Do not overstep your bounds, or there could be serious and potentially fatal consequences. Do I make myself clear?" He practically growled out the last sentence, cold indigo eyes flicking between those of Alfred and Matthew.

Both men nodded, and Ivan gave a cold smile. "Good. Now you may go back to your apartment and continue living as you normally would. Do you have any questions?"

Alfred tentatively raised his hand. Ivan almost laughed at how childish Alfred was acting. "Go on, Mr. Jones," he chuckled.

"What do we do if nothing comes up? What if nobody's talking and time passes and we're no closer than we are now?"

"Then we keep trying," Ivan sighed.

"But we have to have a plan. We can't just listen for information that will never come!" Alfred exclaimed, appalled at how baize the commander was acting.

"Alfred." Ivan barked, slamming his fist down on the table. "You are not a detective. You are a civilian, and I am not willing to put your life at stake. I'm tempted to take you off this case right now, and I probably would were it not for the fact that I know you'd keep reporting anyway. I figure if I keep you as a part of a police team there's a smaller chance you'll injure yourself, and I'll manage to keep some control over you. Do not make me regret my decision to involve you."

Upon seeing a familiar look of stubborn hate on Alfred's face, Matthew jumped in. "Al," he soothed, "Don't worry. We don't know what's going to happen yet, because we haven't even tried. If we need to change a strategy, we'll deal with it when the time comes." He raised his voice menacingly, "So stop being a stubborn jackass and perk up a bit. You're helping solve a crime, for fuck's sake. You're the one who wanted to play hero, so man up and start acting like it."

Alfred's jaw clicked shut. Matthew sighed in relief.

A sudden, booming laugh echoed through the room. "You-" he gasped, "you have a spine after all. You don't show it when you're being suspected of murder, but you'll use it to whip your friend into shape when he's being a coward. Any you," he turned to face Alfred, still laughing uproariously, "You're whipped. You're completely dominated by that little flower. I can't believe it."

Both Alfred and Matthew turned varying shades of pink.

The next day marked the return of all employees back to work. The yellow 'crime scene –do not cross' tape had been removed, and the parking lot had been cleared of all but one squad car, which remained stationed in the far corner of the front lot.

The copying room was still taped off, and if one wandered too close to the door, the acid tang of bleach and cleaner could be clearly distinguished. There was still a faint coppery undertone to the stench that anyone would be hard pressed to ignore.

Matthew had been tackled by Gilbert upon his return. After a hurried explanation of events, "Yes, I'm fine, no I wasn't thrown in jail for the night, no they didn't do a cavity search, wait, what?" things were back to the way they normally were. Well, there was one major difference. Workplace gossip levels had gone through the roof, and unsurprisingly, little groups had formed to discuss the murder. Many people avoided both Matthew and Alfred like the plague, though Gilbert and Arthur stubbornly ignored the gossip and continued to walk to the cafeteria with the newly dubbed murderers, ignoring the way people edged out of their way as though they carried some sort of infectious disease.

"Bloody wankers," Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes as a young woman in a hideous pencil skirt gasped in panic before power walking down the corridor from which she had come. "Always jumping to conclusions. Although, Matthew may have played a significant role in the formation of those conclusions. Not very smart, lad," He chastised, cuffing Matthew on the ear. "What possessed you to blurt out your suspicions in front of the entire room? I thought you were smarter than that."

Matthew mumbled something intelligible, edging away from the Brit angrily.

"Aw, muffin," Alfred cooed, patting Matt's shoulder condescendingly. "He sometimes has trouble thinking in advance. Lack of foresight, I believe it's called."

Arthur scoffed, whacking the American upside the head. "Show some manners." Then, to Matthew he added, "You don't have to worry. If you have trouble focusing I can give you the number for this lovely woman I ran into by the harbourfront. She'll work with you and-"

"Arthur." Matthew growled, glaring at Alfred accusingly. "I can think perfectly well on my own. Alfred may need some help though. He didn't really think that last comment through and he'll find that he's going to suffer for it later."

Gilbert made an 'ooh'-ing sound, making a face at the American. "Someone's whipped."

Matthew chuckled, recalling his and Alfred's past conversation with Ivan. Alfred must have remembered as well, as he turned an interesting shade of magenta and began vehemently protesting.

Alfred was just about to tackle Matthew when a small, skittish, squirrel-like ball of nervous energy thudded into his chest. Staggering back and fixing his glasses so that they perched on his nose once more, Alfred faced the newcomer.

Gary was picking himself up off the floor, stammering apologies and hurriedly shuffling an armful of papers. "O-oh, sorry guys. I should have been watching were I was going. I'm really very sorry. Oh, I'm apologizing too much. I'm sorry about that. Oh," he chuckled nervously, chattering nervously, "I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'm sorry, there's a lot I have to get done, our department is running out of staff." He gave a weak giggle, shushing himself almost immediately after. "Drat, here I go again, I shouldn't have said that." He paused for breath, eyes darting between the four amused faces staring at him. "Well," he coughed, "I really must be going. General ledger isn't going to balance itself, you know." And with that he was off, skittering down the hallway back to his office, apologizing profusely to anyone he encountered.

"Wow." Gilbert whistled, staring at Gary's retreating figure. "High strung little fella, isn't he?"

"Don't be rude," Arthur chastised. "I'm sure the poor man's got a lot on his plate at the moment. Two senior employees in his apartment have passed away in less than a week. I'm sure he's under a lot of stress."

"Yeah," Alfred commented. "Did you see him? I thought his head was going to explode for a minute there. But I can see why he'd be so stressed out. I mean, at this rate his entire department will be gone within 3 weeks."

"Probably worried he's going to have to file the incident reports," Gilbert smirked. "That's why I vowed never to become an accountant. The world could be going to hell around them and they'd still be stuck in the office, diligently typing up memos explaining why nobody will be in to work the next day."

"But who would read them?" Matthew asked.

"Who cares? He's in accounting. He doesn't write for other people. He writes so he can keep the general ledger accurate."

"Imagine what would happen if someone destroyed all the files," Alfred whistled.

"Poor Gary would have a hernia," Gilbert scoffed. "Doesn't take much to figure that out. I mean, look at him. Things are still pretty normal around here and he looks like he's seen his own death."

"I wouldn't exactly say things have been normal," Matthew replied. "I mean, there have been two deaths, one of which was a murder. Don't you think that qualifies as slightly abnormal?"

"Meh, it's a big company. I'm sure the death rate isn't too outrageous," Gilbert replied. "If you really want to find out, we can ask Gary. I'm sure he keeps track of these kinds of statistics."

"Actually," Arthur cut in. "I think we have more pressing matters to discuss." He strode through the doors to the cafeteria, grabbing a tray and heading toward the coffee stand, ignoring how Matthew balked at the idea of drinking non-Tim Hortons' coffee. Honestly, that boy must have a fetish or something. A weird, 20-minutes-fresh fetish. Arthur shivered, not linking where his thoughts were headed.

After buying lunch, and listening to Alfred's rant about the lack of variety in food choices (Alfred complained enthusiastically about the lack of McDonalds almost every time they ate at the office cafeteria. Everyone in the building was used to it at this point) the four friends regrouped at a table in the coffee shop.

"So," Arthur began, fixing his steely gaze on Matthew. "I've been dying to ask you. What happened after you were taken aside the other day? You never really told us this morning. I'm sure it can't be any worse than remaining trapped in that room with Gilbert."

"Well," Matthew muttered, glancing about nervously to ensure they weren't being overheard. Really, he had nothing to worry about. The four friends were given a wide berth, with the closest employee being the cashier some 20 meters away. "They cuffed my wrists behind me, which hurt like a bitch after about five minutes, and took me to one of the conference rooms. Really, it wasn't all that bad. Brought back some great memories from second year. Man," he chuckled, eyes closing in bliss, "those were the days. The school was shit, but man, those economics guys could party it up."

Arthur coughed. "Yes, well," he grumbled. "Much as I'd love to hear about your drunken escapades with law enforcement, I'd love to get back to the topic at hand."

"You're just jealous because you went to a boring British school," Alfred mocked, mimicking a British accent (and failing horribly). "I'm Arthur and I went to school to learn. Anyone up for tea and crumpets, or pansy-ass soccer-football, which pales in comparison to the awesome god-like sport of American football?"

Arthur looked livid, green eyes flashing as he made to strangle the American. Gilbert managed to hold him back, laughing as Alfred scooted back in his chair, a look of terror replacing his previous cocky grin. "American football is nothing in comparison to the British sport, and it would do you some good to remember that before I get the chance to show you just how strong we football players really are."

"Alright, break it up guys." Matthew, ever the voice of reason, said. "You're starting to attract attention."

And it was true. The cashier, as well as the three people in line, were all staring at their table with looks of anticipation and fear. Alfred waved a cheery hello, and the four friends were treated to the sight of four heads simultaneously ducking to look at the floor. Gilbert let out a loud chuckle. Arthur just sighed.

"You were telling us about the handcuffs?"

"Oh, yeah," Matthew resumed his story. "So anyway, they led to one of the conference rooms on this floor. As soon as I got in, they made me sit in one of those really fancy chairs they give to executives? Only guess what? It sucked balls, because my arms were still pinned behind my back and there were two guards in the room with me, plus an interrogator, and none of them would let me move or try to get even the least bit comfortable.

"Ah," Arthur muttered. "Classic interrogation tactics. Never let your victim get comfortable, keep them one edge. Make them physically uncomfortable, and mentally they'll follow. It's textbook."

"Uh huh," Alfred raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know this?"

"I read a lot of mystery novels," Arthur replied, sniffing disdainfully. "Not like you would know. I doubt you've picked up a book since you left school."

"Do you guys need some privacy?" Gilbert interjected. "Because it seems like it. Get over your teenage angst, grow some balls, and either fuck or beat the crap out of each other so Matt can finish his god damn story."

"Thanks," Matthew replied, coolly gazing at the two completely silent men across from him. Alfred had bypassed the various shades of pink and red and settled for turning an off-blue, while Arthur looked as though he were about to be sick. "Are you two done?"

"Bloody hell. Just finish the story already," Arthur grumbled, burying his head in his arms.

"So anyway, I was sitting in the chair, and this huge Russian man was sitting across from me. And I'm not exaggerating at all here. This guy was massive. He could have crushed everyone at this table with two fingers. Anyway, he started talking, psyching me out and whatnot, and asked a few questions. I think it was pretty obvious that I wasn't a killer, because he took off the cuffs after about 10 minutes."

"Well, you aren't exactly intimidating, poppet."

"Yeah," Gilbert added. "Plus, you kind of look like a girl."

"What?" Matthew cried, punching Gilbert in the shoulder. "I do not."

"Well, actually," Alfred coughed. "I kind of have to agree."

Matthew looked murderous.

"To be fair, it's not your fault," Alfred reasoned. "I mean, you have French hair, and for some reason you decided to keep it long, not that I'm complaining," he added hastily, sensing Matthew's building frustration. "I mean, your hair got you quite a bit of attention from the girls' hockey team. Or maybe that was your ferocity in the fights. I couldn't really tell."

Actually, it was a combination of both, but Matthew didn't bother correct him. "Anyway, I'm in the clear now. Just in case you cared."

"Good for you," Gilbert groaned. "Now, do you have anything interesting to tell us? Do you have any idea who the murderer is?"

"Gilbert," Arthur scowled. "If Matthew knew who the murderer was, he'd probably tell the police. However, since they already interrogated him and they have yet to come to any conclusions, I doubt Matthew has any idea."

A loud crash suddenly sounded throughout the cafeteria. Everyone's heads whipped toward the doors, where Gary was shakily picking himself up off the floor again. "Sorry," he squeaked. "I didn't see the trays, I guess."

"Man, he's skittish," Gilbert remarked.

"Aw, leave him alone," Alfred replied, watching as Gary scurried away, nearly sprinting back through the double doors. "He's just under a lot of stress. He wasn't like this when we spoke last week."

"Since when are you guys friends?" Gilbert asked.

"Well, he asked if I wanted to go for drinks, and I didn't see why not-"

Gilbert laughed uproariously. "Something you're not telling us?"

"Shut the hell up," Alfred grumbled. "I was just being nice."

"For once, I agree. I've already said everything that has to be covered," Matthew commented. "Besides, I think Alfred has a good point. We should all be a little nicer to Gary."

"So it's settled then," Arthur cut in. "We'll invite him for drinks," he glared at Gilbert, silently daring him to comment on his choice of wording, "And get him to ease up a bit. The lad certainly needs it."

"Sounds good," Alfred grinned. "I'll invite him this afternoon."

"And who knows," Matthew added. "Maybe Gary knows something about the murders. This could be our chance to find out." He exchanged a knowing glance with Alfred before switching the topic of conversation to the latest hockey results, sparking a feud between Gilbert and Arthur.

As their argument grew, ("The Leafs are horrible! I don't know why you even bother watch their games!" "Yeah, well, at least I don't stay up at night watching the cricket finals." "For the last bloody time, it's a real sport!") Matthew found himself retreating back into his own quiet headspace. He couldn't get his thoughts off of the murder, and if the look of concentration on Alfred's face was any indication, the American couldn't either. Matthew sighed. Perhaps Gary would be able to fill in some of the gaps in their investigation. Taking the accountant out to dinner may blow the case wide open. He chastised himself for thinking like Alfred. Most likely, Gary would stutter throughout the evening, knock over a few drinks, and go home. However, the Canadian still couldn't shake the feeling of excitement that permeated his bones when he thought of the upcoming dinner.

Did Gary know something about the murder? He'd just have to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_In which Alfred and Matthew decide to play detective, attempt a subtle interrogation, and end up disappointed and hammered._

Three days after their plan was created, Alfred, Matthew, Arthur, and Gilbert met Gary in a small Irish pub on Bay Street. The dark, dingy lighting contrasted sharply with the warm, homey atmosphere that pervaded the teak walls of the establishment. Gary arrived on time, breathless and still in his work clothes but significantly calmer than he had been in the cafeteria when they had first come up with the idea to go drinking.

Not that what they were doing could be called drinking. Even Gilbert, the party animal of the group, had to admit that the chances of getting completely wasted in the pub were slim. However, the group of friends (plus one socially retarded accountant) managed to have a good time. The hockey game was playing on three large televisions stationed throughout the bar, and Matthew felt right at home amongst the hockey fans that flocked to their fluorescent glow.

"So Gary," Alfred drawled, taking a sip from his beer. "We don't see much of you at work. What do you get up to, in accounting?"

"You git, Arthur slurred, working his way through his fourth drink of the night. "Give the man a break. He doesn't want to talk about work, we're supposed to be having fun." He hiccupped, "That's why Matthew's not beating the crap out of those hockey fans. I mean, can you believe them?" he exclaimed, his voice gradually growing louder as he worked himself into a rant.

Alfred chuckled lightly into his drink, content to watch Arthur dig his own grave with the bar's patrons.

"I mean," Arthur continued, "I understand that hockey is Canada's national game, but that doesn't mean these poor people have the right to cheer for such an awful team. You couldn't pay me to come to one of their games. And that's saying something, because from what I've heard the ticket prices are outrageous. No, I believe the people here must be delusional. There's no way anyone would pay to see a Leafs game, especially with the record the team seems to be defending. Did you know they've gone over 40 years without winning the cup? It's ridiculous," he scoffed.

Unfortunately for Arthur, the crowd of hockey fans was mainly composed of Maple Leaf supporters. One man who happened to overhear Arthur's rant approached the table, slamming a fist upon the polished wood.

"What did you say about my team?" he growled, motioning for two of his friends to come over. Arthur gulped, finally realizing the grave mistake he had made. These fans were not going to let his words go unanswered, and to make matters worse, the Leafs were losing. 4-0, to be exact. The Leafs were already behind, and it didn't look like they were going to catch up anytime soon. Fucking perfect. Good thing Matthew was a Montreal Canadians fan, and was therefore impervious to the sense of perpetual disappointment that seemed to consume the supporters of any Toronto sports team. Instead, the sadness was replaced by a sense of awkward pity.

Luckily, the abysmal score was enough to draw Matthew away from the crowd of fans. The Canadian returned to the table at the end of the first period, arriving just in time to dissuade the large men from attacking Arthur, who had consumed the rest of his drink upon seeing one of the men crack his knuckles menacingly against the wall.

Gilbert then reappeared from his mysteriously long trip to the bar, carrying a pitcher of beer and a plate of wings. As soon as the alcohol hit the table, Arthur reached for the pitcher, refilling his glass and downing half of it immediately.

"Geez, slow down there Arthur," Gilbert smirked. "Who pissed in your cornflakes anyway? You don't usually drink this much without a reason. Not necessarily a good reason, but a reason nonetheless.

"A couple of ignorant buffoons decided to try and convert me to their sports team," the Brit muttered.

"Well, they're a good team," Gilbert argued. "Just you wait, this year they're going to go all the way." Alfred burst out laughing.

Arthur, Matthew, and Gary quickly joined in the American's obvious amusement, laughing uproariously.

"Guys," Gilbert whined. "Seriously, it's not that funny. Stop laughing, people are starting to stare."

"Serves you right for cheering for the Leafs," Gary hooted, blushing as the laughter suddenly died and four surprised faces turned to stare at him in shock.

"Right on, man." Matthew cheered, breaking the stunned silence. "You've got the right idea. We should watch the game sometime. Not a Leafs game, but maybe the Habs. Either way, drink up. First round's on Gilbert, for being such a stupid prick."

"Awesome," Alfred crowed, ordering another pitcher of Creemore Springs. The original was already beginning to look a little empty, (no thanks to Arthur) and damned if he was going to pay for another one.

Several rounds (and four more goals on the Leafs) later, four of the five friends were completely smashed. Alfred remained sober, opting to take one for the team and drive everyone home.

"Alright, last call guys" Alfred announced, plucking Gilbert's wallet from slow fingers and sauntering up to the bar. "Finish up what you've got, we're going home."

"Ah, I'll be right back," Matthew slurred, stumbling toward the washrooms. Gary quickly followed, downing the last of his beer in one fell swoop.

The dark, dingy corridor leading to the washrooms was empty, most of the pub's patrons having left after the end of the hockey game. Matthew pushed open the mahogany men's room door, staring uncomprehendingly as it swung forward, then swung back to it's original place. Remembering his initial reason for being there, he made his way to a urinal. Gary walked in a few moments later, equally uncoordinated.

The two men nodded at each other, deciding that it was better not to attempt conversation in their current state. It was only when they had left the washroom and begun walking down the familiar dark hallway that a sudden burst of wisdom imparted itself into Matthew's feeble mind.

"Hey," the Canadian muttered. "What's the deal with those deaths in accounting? Something to do with the ledger?" He snorted, laughing to himself. "Ledger. Haha."

Gary however, didn't find the joke to be nearly as funny. "Ah," He murmured. "You shouldn't be so blaze about that. I heard they were both murders. Craig and Jeff. Who knows who'll be next?" He somehow managed to combine a shiver and yawn, resulting in what appeared to be a mild seizure.

"Don't worry," Matthew assured. "I'm sure everything will work out. Besides, nobody's stupid enough to strike twice in the same place. You're safe."

"But he has struck twice. Two people died."

"What? Two? Oh yeah," Matthew sighed, leaning heavily on Gary's shoulder. "Mm, so where do you come in?"

"Well, I'm in accounting," Gary murmured, hobbling awkwardly down the long hallway. "So I'm in the target demographic."

"Demo, demi, what?" Matthew slurred. "Why would anyone go after accountants? You guys just punch numbers. There's no crime."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that."

"What?"

"Things go on in every company. Embezzlement, fraud, scandal, you name it. Accountants can be just as bad as everyone else. Honestly, some of the guys aren't nearly as honest as they make themselves out to be." He sighed.

"Maybe they're better off dead."

Matthew stumbled into a wall, dragging Gary with him. "Dead?" He slurred. "Hm, but who would kill them. Even if they were assholes."

"Well, if they did something that was immoral, like murdering or stealing from innocent people, I'm sure someone would stand up."

"Like the Americans liberating Iraq?" Matthew quipped, staggering a little more harshly as he coughed. "No heroes in this world. Don't tell that to Al though."

"Maybe you'll be surprised one day," Gary sighed, resigning himself to dragging the Canadian down the hallway. "I mean, I wouldn't have the balls to do anything, but…" he trailed off.

"Naw," Matthew drawled. "You're brave. You're the ultimate accountant. Justice League of Accountants. The Flash." He giggled. Gary just hummed, resigned to half-dragging the Canadian out of the bar.

Finally, _finally_, they reached the exit. Alfred wordlessly hauled Matthew into the backseat, buckling his seatbelt for him and slapping the Canadian's wandering hands away as he tried to cop a feel.

Gary clambered into the passenger's seat, buckling his own seat belt as Alfred started the engine. They managed to drop Gilbert and Arthur off at their respective houses before heading back to the downtown core. Matthew has fallen asleep sometime along the way, and his soft snores could barely be heard over the hum of the engine. They were just approaching Gary's apartment complex when Alfred spoke up.

"So, how are things down in accounting?"

Garry hummed noncommittally, staring steadily at the darkened road ahead of them. Street lamps flashed intermittent bursts of yellowed light through the windshield, briefly illuminating the car's interior before plunging it back into darkness.

"Come on, man." Alfred murmured. "You must have more to say than that."

"Why are you and Matthew so interested in my job?" Gary couldn't stop the note of accusation that seeped into his voice. Behind them, Matthew gave a small gasp before burrowing further into the seat. His breathing evened out once more.

"I don't know," Alfred replied, thinking frantically of an excuse of his curiosity. "I mean, we work in the same building, one the same floor even, but I never really see you. You're always squirreled away in your office."

"You'd feel the same way if you had to work with snobby, selfish, power-crazed executives all day." Gary mumbled.

"Touché," Alfred quipped, easing up on the gas a little. The change in speed was barely noticeable, but Alfred prayed it would buy him enough time to find out more about Gary's activities. He was in the same office as both murders, after all.

"So how snobby are they? I mean, I've only met one of them in person. Usually we just hear about their $400 lunches and stuff."

"They're pretty bad," Gary growled. "They're only interested in their own personal gain. There's no idle chatter in our department; all the executives manage to kill it with their overly hostile morning attitudes. And they're always dealing under the table. I swear to god, they can't get anything done without a bribe."

"They bribe each other?" Alfred exclaimed.

"Well," Gary laughed humorlessly. "Not as such. They take each other out to dinner and try to write it all off as an operating expense later. Cost of doing business, you know? Impress the other guys and they'll listen to you. Try and gain more power. Kiss up to the people in HR in a pathetic attempt to earn an even bigger bonus. The usual."

"Man," Alfred whistled. "That's really sad."

"Yeah," Gary trailed off, diverting his attention back to the road ahead. Alfred got the impression that he wasn't going to say anything more on the subject, and drove the rest of the distance in silence. Gary got out at the front of his building, thanking Alfred for the ride and giving him a hesitant smile. Alfred returned it with his trademark All-American grin, though it felt cracked and old at the edges. Gary didn't seem to notice.

As he sped away, Alfred couldn't help but think he had stumbled upon something big. Gary had seemed somber as he recalled his office, carefully constructing his answers and relaying them with a poker face that rivaled those of problem gamblers in Las Vegas.

And while his statements betrayed nothing sinister, Alfred couldn't help but thank that the accountant was hiding something. And he was determined to find out what.

**xXx**

The following morning proved to be somber in the Williams/Jones residence. Matthew had stumbled out of bed, wondered briefly how he got there (he had refused to get up when Alfred parked the car, and the American was left with no choice but to half carry, half drag the Canadian to their apartment. And then, after cursing loudly the entire way, Alfred had thrown him into bed, felt a momentary pang of guilt, and fetched a glass of water for when Matthew awoke in the morning.

Things had not turned out according to plan, however. Matthew had woken up, peeled off his clothes, and headed straight for the shower, grabbing the glass of water on the way. He had scarcely made it out the door before he was overcome by a wave of nausea, and he soon found himself sprinting down the hall to the bathroom, fully naked, glass of water clutched between pale fingers. And of course, he hit the bookshelf. He rebounded off of the ancient wood paneling, landing on his ass in a puddle of water and glass shards. Then, to make matters worse, Alfred had come running, panicked after hearing the crash, and was treated to an eyeful of Matthew in all his naked glory. At least they both had the decency to blush.

"So," Alfred coughed, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. "Rough morning?"

Matthew didn't bother grace him with an answer, choosing instead to try and pick himself up off the floor. He groaned as he felt several glass shards prickling at the skin on the backs of his thighs, arms, and unmentionable areas. Finally, rather than castrating himself, he settled for rolling on to his stomach and standing from there, wincing as some of the larger chunks of what-was-once-a-functional-glass digging into the arch of his foot. Ignoring Alfred's weak laughter, he stumbled toward the bathroom, determined to remain in the shower for the rest of the morning. Turning on the spray and stepping in, Matthew realized what a bad idea a hot shower had been. The minute shards in his legs seemed to pulse with agony as they dug deeper into his skin, the steam from the shower enabling those that had been fortunate enough to wind up in a pore to burrow deeper in his skin. He stood for 10 seconds, thinking wistfully that this was not how he wanted to spend his morning. Then he turned off the spray, dabbed at his legs with a towel, and wandered back into the hallway. Alfred was still there, picking up the glass shards and depositing them in a porcelain snoopy mug.

"You turned on the hot water, didn't you?" he remarked, not looking up.

"Yeah," Matthew replied. "I'm assuming you have something to say on the topic, because I'm sure as hell you don't want to spend the next hour picking glass shards out of my ass."

"Nope," Alfred shuddered, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. "But you might want to turning down the heat a bit. The cold water will close your pores so you can get the tiny shards out."

"Thanks…how did you know that?"

"I grew up in Florida, for fuck's sake. If you're doing repairs on your boat, truck, surfboard, and really anything that's not made of wood, you'll learn pretty quickly."

Matthew hummed before returning to the bathroom. Ten minutes later he returned to the kitchen, this time fully clothed. Alfred was already cooking breakfast.

"Hey," Matthew began. "What happened last night? I don't remember leaving the pub."

"Well, you drank all night, snuck off to the washroom with Gary, came back, and passed out in the car. And then I carried you to bed, which hurt like a bitch to be perfectly honest. So you'd better be damn grateful."

"Thanks," Matthew murmured. I feel like something important happened.

"Well you didn't get laid, if that's what you're hinting at," Alfred smirked, depositing an omelet onto the Canadian's plate and setting it on the table.

"No," Matthew growled. "I'm perfectly aware of that, thanks. It just feels like I should be remembering something. Something big. Did Gary say anything about the murders?"

"Actually," Alfred replied, taking his own omelet and sitting next to Matthew, "He did. Or rather, he didn't. I'm not too sure what to make of it."

"Slow down there," Matthew quipped. "You're getting me riled up."

"Seriously!" Alfred defended himself. "I asked him about the murders while you were passed out in the back. He seemed really skittish about the whole thing."

"And normally he's a calm, composed individual?" Matthew remarked, getting up to make a pot of coffee.

"Well, no" Alfred admitted. "But this was different. He started avoiding my questions, refusing to respond, you know, the stuff you see on CSI."

"Actually," Matthew remarked, "I watch flashpoint. It's Canadian, and it's just as good."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Can't you see? Gary is hiding something."

"What exactly did he say?" Matthew asked, pouring instant coffee powder into two mugs filled with boiling water.

"He started talking about the executives, people he works with, and the people murdered. He wasn't exactly complimentary."

"How so?"

"He went on about their double dealings, how they spend money and try to expense it, and how they're general assholes to each other. He didn't sound too upset that two of the highest-paid people in the company are dead. In fact, he seemed almost glad."

"Well," Matthew remarked, bringing two cups of coffee to their table, "I admit that it sounds a little suspicious. However, we need more than that if we want to talk to Braginski again. For all we know, the guy could just have it in for his coworkers. I mean, they aren't exactly friendly, from what I've seen. "

"True enough. He has to work with people who get paid at least $50,000 more than him. That must be hard to take."

"Exactly," Matthew soothed. "So calm down. He could be a murdering psychopath who's hell-bent on revenge. He could just as easily be your average Joe who hates the people he's stuck working for."

"Well we can't just let this slide," Alfred protested.

"And we won't. But we're not calling Gary into the police station. I don't even think we can do that. Braginski told us to keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground, so that's what we'll do. There's more to these murders than meets the eye, and I don't want to get caught up in something we know nothing about."

"We'd be smarter than that," Alfred argued. "And we wouldn't have to arrest anyone. I'm just saying that maybe we should find out more about Gary's activities.

"And you think the police haven't done that? I mean, he's closer to the two victims than we are."

"But we're special cases and you know it. Maybe Gary's smart enough not to scream about murder in a crowded room full of suspicious employees."

"I told you already," Matthew growled, "It was a mistake. Gilbert set me up. Get the hell off my back you hoser."

"Oh my god," Alfred crowed. "Did you just call me a hoser?"

Matthew turned a violent shade of pink.

"You did!" the American exclaimed. "You crazy Canuck." He ruffled Matthew's hair affectionately, dodging the sharp slap aimed at his nose.

"Seriously though. We should get on this."

"Al," Matthew sighed. "If I say yes, will you drop it? My head is killing me."

"Well, that depends. Are you going to come with me? Every hero needs a sidekick." He grinned hopefully.

Matthew sent a harsh glare his way. If looks could kill, Alfred would already be dead. "Okay, first of all, I'm not your sidekick. We're partners. Secondly, we're not superheroes. We're detectives, and we'll act as such. After all," he smiled, "Detective Williams has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Alfred nodded enthusiastically, glad that Matthew was on board with the idea. "So how do you want to do this?"

"I still say we should keep a low profile. Why don't we start small? We can search his office when he's left for the day. Maybe we can do it during lunch, since all the big shots will have gone out."

"Sounds good. But what guarantee do we have that Gary will come out of his office?"

"None. Which is why we need a distraction. I can get Gilbert to piss him off or something."

"Or," Alfred supplied helpfully, "We could get Artie and Gilbert to take him out to lunch. That way we can keep him out of the office while we search, and as an added bonus, he'll have some new friends if he turns out to be innocent."

"And If not?"

"Well, I'm sure the cops will go easy on Gilbert if they find out he's been hanging out with a murderer. I mean, they have no proof or anything…" At a look from Matthew, he smiled. "Kidding. Ivan knows we're on his side. Nothing's going to happen."

"Still, I don't think we should involve other people, Matthew replied. Secretly he wasn't sure that the commander fully trusted him yet, but he kept this thought to himself. No need to scare Alfred. He'd probably laugh it off anyway, seeing as how he was practically in love with the cop. Damn his hero complex. Tearing himself away from his train of thought, Matthew continued, "What if the murderer, whoever they are, realizes what we're doing and goes after us?"

"Yeah," Alfred snorted. Like a murderer is going to go after two lackeys like us. We're not worth the ground those executives walk on. I think they'd just hire some thugs to beat the living shit out of us in an alley, if anything."

"And you say that like it's a good thing," Matthew remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, it's better than being murdered in an office building. I mean, at least you die free if you're being mugged in an alley," Alfred joked.

Matthew looked unimpressed. "Moving on. I've got hockey tonight, but I'm getting a ride from Matthias. The car's all yours."

"Awesome," Alfred cheered. Quieting slightly, he continued in a small voice, "Now if only I had plans."

Matthew smacked the American upside the head. "You do, dork. Check the calendar. You get the grand pleasure of driving to a physical. Your appointment is at six. Have fun."

"When did this happen?" Alfred exclaimed, rushing to the refrigerator to examine the calendar closely. There it was, beneath a picture of Bobby Orr scoring the game winner. Alfred -6pm Doctor. Well, so much for having a night out.

* * *

><p>Have a good Remembrance Day :)<br>This story is a submission for NaNoWriMo, which is why I'm determined to finish it, rather than abandon it like all my other fics. It's unedited right now, so there are probably plenty of mistakes. I'm just ensuring that I have a backup by posting it here. ALthough, if you have any comments or criticisms I'd love to hear them.  
>(Speaking of which, if anyone wants to adopt one of my other stories, feel free. Just ask first, in case I have a moment of sudden regret and decide that I want to finish it after all.)<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_If life were a sandwich, Alfred and Matthew would have bitten off much more than they can chew._

Early Monday morning, Alfred and Matthew met in the kitchen of their apartment to discuss their plan. Alfred had finally convinced Matthew that Gary shouldn't be trusted, and after setting out several conditions (namely that Alfred wouldn't let his hero complex get out of hand), he had agreed to search Gary's office. Matthew shuffled into their kitchen at 6:30am, running at his eyes and yawning as he took in the sight before him. Alfred was sitting at the table surrounded by papers and charts, all of which appeared to brawn with sharpie mixed with ketchup. When Matthew verbalized his observation, Alfred defended that he was hungry, and how could anyone expect him to get up early without hash browns and ketchup? Matthew could only sigh.

"What are all these?" the Canadian groaned, rolling his eyes at a stick figure depiction of Gary, complete with fangs and red eyes.

"Our plan!" Alfred exclaimed. "It's like what batman does with all his computer screens. We've got all our info right here, spread out in front of us."

"But this is a comic."

"No, it's a plan."

"It doesn't contain any words beyond 'Evil', 'I'm Gary' and 'The Best Plan Ever: By Alfred Jones'. Don't you think you're missing a bit?"

"Like?"

"Well, don't you think you're forgetting someone?"

"Oh, I included you. See?" Alfred pointed to a stick figure with a hockey stick and wavy hair. Stick-Matthew appeared to be following Alfred, who was dressed in a cape and mask.

"Uh huh," Matthew sighed. "Moving on. How are we going to do this?"

"Well," Alfred explained. "You might not like my diagram, but you'll love the plan itself. We're going to get Gilbert to ask Gary to lunch. With luck, Gary will accept and Gilbert will take him to Tim's, or some other restaurant far away. In the meantime, you'll be working away in your cubicle. If Gilbert's not back to grab his coat in 10 minutes, we'll assume plan A has failed. At that point, Arthur will step up to the plate and ask Gary to grab some coffee or a light snack in the cafeteria. He'll phrase it like an order, and put an emphasis on the fact that it's a means of paying him back for that round he bought when you guys were hammered." Upon seeing Matthew's questioning look, he sighed. "He bought you guys a round. You probably don't remember much of it, but I can now say with complete honesty that you are a horrible dancer. Especially when you try to be seductive. I don't think the waitress was impressed."

Matthew stood agape, eyes widening in shock. Alfred, seeing the horrified look on the Canadian's face, burst out laughing.

"Relax, man. I managed to convince Gilbert to delete the video. Although, I may have sent a copy to myself for safekeeping." He paused to leer at the hyperventilating Canadian, "But don't worry. As long as you're good, we won't see that video for a long, long, time."

"You bastard," Matthew muttered. "Let's not forget all the durst I have on you. I'd get rid of that video unless you want the entire office to see you in all your naked glory, climbing the-"

"Don't even," Alfred smirked. "This is way worse. After all," Alfred leaned in toward the Canadian until his breath ghosted along a pale neck, "At least my video doesn't have pickup lines."

Matthew opened his mouth in protest, shivering at the feel of Alfred's hot breath on his neck. "No, your video had a wonderful narration wherein several girls chose to comment on your dick, and compare it to those of the guys they'd slept with. They weren't very complimentary, although their analogies were quite clever. I'm surprised it didn't end up on Facebook."

Alfred gave up, releasing the Canadian and trotting back to the table. "Whatever. My plan is awesome and you know it."

"Sure thing, 6-inch." Matthew grinned. Seconds later, he was regretting speaking as Alfred beat him over the head with the morning newspaper. "Ow, ow, okay, you win. Geez, it's like you're trying to compensate for something." Another menacing growl from Alfred shut him up.

"Moving on. We should implement this amazing plan today, before Gary goes nuts and kills someone else." Alfred struck a dramatic pose, "After all, it's what heroes do. And you, Matt. You're allowed to save people too, I guess."

"Gee, thanks. We don't even know that Gary's the murderer yet. I mean, he's always been a high-stung workaholic. Maybe he's just having his time of the month."

"Or maybe he's a murderer. We won't know until we find out, which is why we're going to start investigating today. No more slacking off."

Speaking of your master plan, you never finished explaining. All I know is that you seem determined to take Gary out to lunch. Is there something you're trying to tell me, because I'll support you no matter what."

Alfred slapped him, turning to face his schematics. "Fuck off. No, we get him out to lunch, distract him or whatever, really I don't care what happens so long as he's out of his office. And then we're going to sneak in and go through all his files. Isn't it brilliant?" He grinned at Matthew, who gave a weak smile in return.

"I'll admit it's alright, but you're missing something. What about all the other people in accounting? They're bound to notice when we come in and start destroying Gary's stuff."

"We won't destroy it," Alfred reasoned. "We're just investigating. And if some files aren't returned to the exact same spots where we found them, it's ok. We're doing this for the sake of the people, Matt. Anything less would be un-heroic, and so any files we misplace will not be considered failures, but rather casualties to the greater cause. Besides, I'm sure Gary will find them eventually."

"Alright, assuming Gary won't notice that we're going through all his work, what will we do if we find something?"

"We take it and run, and if anyone should stand in our path, we shall strike them down with our heroic valour, and-"

"We're not in Lord of the Rings, Alfred. What are we going to do?"

"We take the papers and photocopy them. Then we take everything back to our house and hide it in the secure location that I have built.

"And where's that?" Matthew asked, genuinely curious.

"You know that annoying bookshelf? I finally found a use for it."

Alfred strode into the hallway, stopping at the edge of the massive shelf. Worming his fingers between the shelf and the wall, Alfred began to pull the shelf outwards, just far enough for Matthew to see a small cupboard in the wall. It was barely half a foot deep, though it was fairly wide.

"Ta-da," Alfred beamed. "I put it in this morning. I figured you'd be too hung-over to notice, and boy was I right. I finished two hours before you woke up."

"Wait," Matthew stopped, "Isn't it illegal to drill holes in your apartment?"

"Well," Alfred coughed, "Technically yes, but I didn't even go through the drywall on this one so it hardly counts. I think we're good. I didn't get much sleep, if you didn't notice. So thinking isn't exactly coming easily right now."

"Yeah, I still can't believe that you got up at 4:30 just to build a cubby."

"A vault," Alfred corrected.

"Don't vaults have locks? And doors?"

"Shut your mouth. This is better."

"I'll admit, it's clever," Matthew conceded. "But you should probably keep this a secret from the building inspector, not that he'd ever come into our apartment anyway."

"Yeah," Alfred sighed happily. "This is going to be awesome."

And for once, Matthew couldn't help but agree.

**xXx**

When Alfred first stepped through the double doors leading into the building, he knew something was off. For one, people seemed to be rushing around more than usual, as if the reports and coffee they carried could save the planet. The parking lot was nearly empty; at least by the American's standards. While the lot still had several parked cars, the parking garage had only filled to the second level. Usually it he and Matthew had to park on level five and take a grueling elevator ride with countless other employees, all of whom got on at levels 1-4.

Today however, the elevator wasn't as crowded. In fact, as Matthew discovered, it was large enough that you could stick your arms out perpendicular to your torso and not touch the walls. They also discovered that there was a mirror along the back wall. All in all, it was a day of discovery for both of them.

Things only got weirder as they approached their respective cubicles. While Gilbert and Arthur were still at work, many of the surrounding cubicles were vacated.

"Why does this place look like a ghost town?" Alfred remarked, sliding into his chair and turning to face Arthur.

"Apparently the news about Craig was leaked on the weekend. Everyone knows that the two murders are connected, and as a result, a lot of people are refusing to come to work. Managers can't do a thing about it, since this could be deemed an unsafe work environment."

"Really? We can leave if we think we're going to be murdered?" Alfred exclaimed, rising from his chair excitedly.

"You can leave whenever you want," Arthur drawled, "But don't expect to be welcomed back. From what I hear, the execs aren't too happy about everyone bailing. They're having a big meeting over lunch today to discuss the events. Everyone's really stressed. Afraid the media will get a hold of this or something."

"Well, I'm sure they already have," Alfred reasoned. "I mean, I doubt everyone here is going to keep their mouth shut, especially if they're given the chance to be on TV."

"Well, don't you think we would have heard about it then?" the Brit argued.

"Nope. Maybe reporters want to confirm the reliability of their sources. Better yet, maybe they're waiting for the murderer to strike again."

"Hm," Arthur murmured. "Perhaps you're right. But I find it odd that we haven't heard anything. I mean, usually they'd say a few lines about a murder, even if it's not all that unique from the countless others that have been committed.

"Gag order?" Alfred suggested.

"I thought those were only issued after a court hearing," Arthur mused. "But maybe the police don't want the news spreading. Maybe they're hoping the killer will return to the scene of the crime or something."

"Highly likely," Alfred agreed. He made a mental note to ask Ivan about it once they searched Gary's office.

"Well," Arthur sighed, "We're stuck here, so we might as well make the best of it. I'm not going to court just so I can skip a few days of work, and I'm sure you can't afford to do that either, so we're just going to have to keep a stiff upper lip for now. "

"Good plan," Alfred replied, settling down in his chair and powering up his computer.

Meanwhile, Matthew had begun briefing Gilbert on their plan. The albino wasn't impressed, to say the least.

"You want me to do what?" he exclaimed. "I can't take Gary out to lunch. Especially not when you're trashing his office. I wouldn't know what to say, and once he got back to work he'd blame the whole thing on me. "

"Aw, Gil, are you scared? Scared of a scrappy little accountant who can barely remember to tie his shoes in the morning? I wouldn't have expected this from the so-called king of awesome."

"Shut up," Gilbert muttered. "I just can't stop thinking about how he drank me under the table. That little butterfly out-drank _me_. Something's not right in this world, Matt."

"So you're avoiding him? I doubt Gary even remembers half the night. I know I don't."

"Well, no offense, but you were pretty hammered. Not that I can blame you. You watched the whole game, didn't even leave for the ads, and the Leafs lost. Badly. Again. So I can't really blame you for wanting to drink, although you should have expected it."

"I'm not even a Leafs fan," Matthew protested. "It's just so depressing, you can't help but feel bad for them. That was pity drinking, the worst form of alcoholism on the planet. I may never live this down."

"Actually, what you really won't live down was that delightful little show you gave us on the table. I'm sure Alfred told you all about that by now, right?"

Matthew muttered a 'yes' under his breath.

"Thought so," Gilbert crowed. "So how does it feel, knowing Alfred can hold that over you?"

"I've still got plenty on him," Matthew smirked. "By the way, his hero complex is acting up again."

"What, he thinks he's going to catch the killer or something?"

"Well yes, actually. And that's where you come in."

"What? You're serious? Jones wants to play detective with a serial killer, and now you want to join in? Are you fucking insane? I thought you were the smart one!"

"Shut up, Berschmilt. I know it sounds fucking insane, alright? But Alfred managed to convince me, to my eternal shame. It's really not a bad idea, I mean we're just doing a little investigation. We're not going on a man hunt or anything."

Gilbert jumped to his feet, brandishing s stapler like a sword and leveling it at Matthew chest. "Who are you and what have you done with Matthew?"

"I'm serious," Matthew whined. "I'm not asking you to join in, I just need a little distraction so Alfred and I can search Gary's office."

"Whoa there, slow down cowpoke. You want to search Gary's office? You think a little guy like Gary's been running around killing people?"

"Well he's the only lead we have," Matthew defended, "And apparently he said some pretty suspicious stuff to Alfred the other night. Besides, if we don't find anything there's no harm done, right?"

"He'll know you were there," Gilbert drawled. "If even one file is moved, he's going to flip his shit, and I don't want to be around when someone with that much nervous energy finally snaps."

"Wow, thanks for the optimism."

"You're very welcome," Gilbert smirked. "But seriously, do you really think Gary's the killer?"

"I can't say. This whole idea is mostly based on Alfred's conversation with him. And if Alfred got bad vibes, something must be up, right?"

"Well, I'll admit that it's weird that someone who's annoyingly cheerful 24/7 suddenly gets bad vibes about an accountant. But maybe that was the booze or something."

"Alfred was the D.D, remember?"

"Oh yeah," Gilbert chuckled. "He was pissed when Gary dragged you out of the washroom. Afraid you were going to vomit all over the car or something. Since you're not in the hospital recovering from blunt-force trauma, I'm going to assume that you didn't."

"Are you going to help or not?" Matthew cut in. "Alfred is trying to convince Arthur to be a back-up distraction. We need your help."

"Well," Gilbert sighed, "I suppose you're bound to fail without my awesome distraction skills. I mean, there's no way the Brit's going to get anything done. I'll help, but you owe me lunch."

"Done," Matthew smiled, shaking Gilbert's hand enthusiastically.

"Not so fast," Gilbert continued. "If Alfred's right and Gary really is a killer, you owe me lunch for a week. Maybe two. And if he kills us, you're my slave in the afterlife. Got it?"

"Not quite. How about this? If he's the killer, I'll get you lunch for a week and a half at moderately priced restaurants (no, you are not getting steak every day you hoser!) and I'll do something nice for you in the afterlife, depending on whether there is one and where I end up."

Gilbert sighed. "You drive a hard bargain Williams. Fine. A week's lunch and if we wind up in heaven, you're my slave for a week. If we wind up anywhere else I'll call it even."

"Deal," Matthew sighed. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this."

**xXx**

At 11:45, fifteen minutes before the executive meeting started, Arthur, Gilbert, Alfred, and Matthew met in the elevator to discuss their plan.

"Why are we in an elevator again?" Gilbert groaned, watching the coloured lights flash as they moved between floors.

"Because this is the one place where we can meet in secret without anyone overhearing us."

"But won't people get on really soon for the lunch rush?"

"Good point. Maybe we can stop the elevator at the top floor?" Alfred suggested.

"No," Matthew cut in. "How about we just finalize our plans and hope nobody wants to get on. Let's just get this over with."

"Fine," Alfred grumbled, looking slightly put out.

"So," Arthur cut in. "Just to make sure I understand this correctly, Gilbert's going to ask Gary to lunch, and when Gary refuses-"

"If," Gilbert cut in. "If he refuses. Give me some credit, eyebrows."

Arthur spluttered indignantly. "Eyebrows?"

"Well you have to admit, your eyebrows are kind of huge." Alfred replied, flashing the angered Brit his All-American Smile . Don't worry though, they suit you," He added upon seeing Arthur's unimpressed reaction.

"Moving on," The Brit grumbled. "Gilbert asks the lad to lunch. If Gary agrees, I'll wait by his office for a few minutes to ensure he doesn't change his mind. If all goes well I'll meet them in the cafeteria. If for some reason, Gary doesn't want to get lunch with an arrogant buffoon, I'll step in and say it's the least I can do to thank him for that splendid evening of which I can remember nearly nothing."

"Perfect," Alfred grinned. "Meanwhile, Matt and I will go through his office and see if there's anything incriminating. If we find anything, we'll take it, put it in a locked drawer in Matt's desk, and rejoin you guys in the cafeteria. We'll say we were both working really hard and didn't get a chance to get out sooner."

"It's brilliant," Matthew muttered sarcastically. "Who can see any flaw in this masterpiece?"

"Oh shut up," Alfred exclaimed. "Just you wait, we're going to catch a killer."

"Or prove Gary's innocence," Arthur added.

"That too." Alfred conceded.

Matthew sighed as the elevator arrived back at their floor. "Now that we've got everything settled, let's put this plan into motion. Ready?"

"Yep, let's lock and load!" Alfred cheered, stepping out of the elevator and striding back toward his cubicle.

"Well, I guess the hero has spoken," Arthur remarked. "We'll meet you at the cafeteria?"

"Sure," Matthew smiled. "Good luck."

"You too. Make sure you don't get caught. I'm sure rifling through company documents isn't considered legal."

"Will do," Matthew saluted, following Alfred out the door.

"They've got no idea what they're doing," Gilbert commented.

"Nope," Arthur agreed. "But that's why we're here. We can only go along with things and try to steer them in the right direction."

"Well then," Gilbert smirked. "Shall we?" He stepped smartly out of the elevator, striding toward the hallway down which Gary's office was located. Arthur trailed behind at a safe distance, stopping when he reached his cubicle.

Gilbert strode confidently toward the accounting department, pausing to admire the paintings that hung on the beige walls of a narrow hallway. He soon emerged at his destination; a series of glass rooms all leading out toward a small empty area at the end of the hallway. There were about four rooms arranged in a boxed formation, all but one of which clearly belonged to managers. The fourth office contained a small desk with countless filing cabinets stacked along the walls. The door had been left slightly ajar and for a moment Gilbert wondered if he was too late. Then he saw Gary huddled behind his desk, sorting through the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the small office, feeling like a fish in a bowl. He never realized how intimidating glass walls could be. Anyone could walk by and see what you were doing –you would be hard pressed to escape work when people could spend their days watching you. Thankfully, only one of the walls seemed to be made of glass; the others were a dark grey, devoid of any decoration or style. All in all, the room looked almost like his cubicle, but with much more space and the addition of several cabinets.

Focusing on Gary's figure, Gilbert gave a polite cough. Gary immediately jumped to his feet, a mixture of shock and guilt flashing through his eyes before being replaced with careful happiness. "Oh hi Gilbert, I wasn't expecting to see you there," he murmured, nudging the drawer closed with his foot. Gilbert watched it swing back on its hinges, but thankfully it didn't shut fully. "Did you need something?" Gary continued, noticing Gilbert's detached interest in his office.

"Oh," Gilbert caught himself. "No, you just looked really stressed, not that I blame you. This office is like an aquarium. Everyone can see you through the wall. It's no wonder you're always working; I would go nuts if I had people watching my every move. But that's why I'm in a cubicle. Nobody cares about the corporate lackeys, not that I'm complaining. I mean, a raise would be nice, but at least OI don't have to work all that hard. I guess I'm pretty content with my job, except I'm not really doing anything useful. But hey, at least I get paid. Aim low and avoid disappointment, that's what I say." He paused, realizing he was rambling.

"So I actually did come here with a purpose," he stated, catching the look of ire that was beginning to creep into Gary's expression. "Did you want to go for lunch or something?"

"Um," Gary's expression softened. "I'm not sure I should. I have a lot of work to do, and these tax claims aren't going to file themselves," he chuckled nervously.

"Aw, come on man," Gilbert smirked. "Live a little. We'll grab a quick bite and you'll be back here before you know it. Besides, I owe you."

"How so?" Gary questioned.

"You had to drag Matt's useless carcass out of the bar the other night. Usually I'm stuck doing that. So it's only fair I drag you away from this hell hole for an hour."

"Well," Gary reasoned, mulling the idea over in his mind. Gilbert could see that Gary was starting to seriously consider the idea and pressed forward. "Come on man, you've been in here all day. You've probably been working late too, knowing you. You deserve an hour. Besides," he smirked, "All the execs are out for that meeting. Nobody will even know you're gone."

"Alright," Gary agreed. "Let me grab my coat."

"Awesome," Gilbert crowed. "Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere close, preferably with real food. I know Alfred loves McDonalds; he's invited me more than once. But I'd rather get something almost-healthy, if that's alright."

"Sure," Gilbert replied. "There's a great bar about a block from here. It's got salads and sandwiches, and it's pretty cheap. Plus, they play hockey highlights all day, so I can brag about the Leafs trampling the Islanders last night." Sound good to you?"

"Perfect," Gary smiled. "Except that bit about the Leafs. I don't think you should be too excited about that win; the Islanders are the worst team in the league and the Leafs only won in overtime. That's pretty bad, even by my standards."

"Screw your standards," Gilbert laughed, holding open the glass door as Gary strode through. You're just upset because they won. They're going to make the playoffs this year, just you wait."

Gary had already started walking down the hall, giving Gilbert the opportunity to slip a pink office eraser into the doorframe. Leave it to Alfred to create a master plan that didn't factor in the fact that Gary's office had a FOB-access door. He'd rub that in the American's face later. For now, he had a hockey fan to convert.

**xXx**

Matthew and Alfred crept down the narrow hallway five minutes after Gilbert and Gary had left the building. Upon reaching Gary's office and seeing the eraser wedged in the door, Matthew smacked Alfred hard and mentally thanked Gilbert. For a Leafs fan, he could be quite smart.

The dynamic duo crept through the door, amazed at the sheer number of filing cabinets that lined the walls of the office.

"Where do we start?" Alfred whispered in awe.

"His desk," Matthew answered. The recent stuff would probably be around there. Maybe he left his computer on with some documents up."

"Why would we care about documents? If he's a killer, he's not going to write about it in his blog or anything. And I don't think he's stupid enough to put murders in the general ledger, no matter how meticulous he is with his accounting procedures."

"What do you know about accounting procedures?" Matthew replied, sighing in defeat when he realized that the computer was password protected. "And the computer's not going to do us any good. We don't have a password anyway."

"I would make a kickass accountant," Alfred defended lamely. "I took a class in grade eleven. Also, look at this. The filing cabinet's open. It looks like he was just going through it. Maybe he hid a knife in here."

"Alfred," Matthew sighed. "Nobody's stupid enough to hide a murder weapon in a filing cabinet. You'd get blood and fingerprints all over company documents."

"Still," Alfred argued. "We might as well go through it. Maybe he's got some emails in there that contain evidence."

"Alright," Matthew agreed. "I'm going to go through his desk. If we're looking for a murder weapon, it seems like a more likely hiding spot."

"As if," Alfred snorted. "That's what he'd want you to think. Everyone's going to search his desk. He'd probably hide the knife outside the building."

"Then why are we searching his office?"

"We're looking for other clues," Alfred explained. "Poison, angry letters, a dartboard with Craig's picture on it. Who knows?"

"Where do you get these ideas?" Matthew snorted, sifting through the reports on Gary's desk.

"I read a lot of hardy boys as a kid." Alfred defended. "And they always solve the case. According to their standards, we're on the right track. Now all we need is to discover the key to the mystery and get kidnapped by some evil henchmen in the dead of night."

"Why do henchmen always strike at night? Don't you think that's kind of predictable? That and the black clothing. They'd stick out like sore thumbs in the real world."

"Tell you what. If we meet any henchmen, I'll put in a good word for you," Alfred quipped. "I'm sure they'd love to hear your opinion on the matter."

"I'm just saying it's a bit cliché." Matthew muttered.

His mumbled rant was interrupted as Alfred gave a triumphant shout. "Aha, look at these," he crowed, waving a few papers in front of Matthew's nose.

"What are they?" Matthew asked, leaning in to get a closer look. The papers appeared to be lines of transactions, some of which were highlighted in fluorescent pink ink. The margins were almost completely black with untidy notes.

"I'm not quite sure. If my grade eleven knowledge is correct, I think it's a copy of an entry to the ledger. Or maybe it's a tax receipt. I'm not really sure. But look at what he's written." Alfred pointed to various comments scrawled in the margins. Matthew snatched the papers, skimming over Gary's words. "Minus 2000? Missing source?" His eyes settled on the bottom comment, circled in black ink. "Payroll and pension M."

"Exactly," Alfred replied. "Payroll and pension. Craig and Jeff. See a connection?"

Matthew gave a low whistle. "You may be on to something here. But this could just be a note to cross-reference his notes with those managers. I mean, maybe there's an error that he needs to work out."

"But then why would it be stuffed in a filing cabinet?"

"Maybe they resolved the problem?"

"You're just fighting me on this," Alfred growled. "Why can't you see that this is evidence?"

"You may be right! I'm not doubting you. I just want to double check all the facts before we accuse one of our coworkers of murder," Matthew exclaimed.

Alfred didn't speak for a moment. "You're right. But let's take this anyway. It's the only lead we've got."

"Should we take it to Ivan?" Matthew asked. He didn't think it would be wise bringing in a piece of stolen intellectual property, but if the seemingly harmless piece of paper really was important, they would be doing more harm than good by withholding it.

"I don't think so," Alfred replied. "We should wait until we figure out what it means. I mean, we're stealing from someone's office. We shouldn't bring that to light if we don't have to. Plus, you saw how angry Ivan was when I suggested doing my own investigation. He flipped his shit."

Matthew let a smile creep onto his face. "But you can't blame him. There you were, fresh out of university with no training save for your weird obsession with the hardy boys," Alfred gave a small cough that sounded like 'CSI'. "Alright, the Hardy Boys and CSI," Matthew amended, "And you wanted to take down a murderer. Can you blame him?"

"True enough," Alfred agreed. "We'd better get out of here. It's been 20 minutes and I'm not pushing my luck. If anyone sees us in here we're screwed and you know it."

Matthew shrugged. "I'll blame you."

"You're a dick, you know that?"

"I can live with that," Matthew smiled.

"Is there anything else in there we should take before we go?"

"Nah, there are a few more sheets like that one, but I think Gary might get suspicious if they all go missing."

"He'll be suspicious either way," Matthew argued. "You know how meticulous he is."

"Fine." Alfred hurriedly grabbed the remaining papers, stuffing them beneath his coat. Matthew set the items on the desk back to their original positions, shuffling his feet anxiously as Alfred tidied up the filing cabinet.

"Good to go?" He asked, eyeing the door.

"Yep," Alfred replied, pressing his arm to his chest in a futile attempt to keep the papers in place.

"You look like you're hiding something," Matthew fretted nervously. "Someone's going to notice."

"Or," Alfred smirked, "I'm sick."

Matthew smirked. "Alright. I guess I'll have to take you home then. Has Gary seen us today?"

"Nope," Alfred grinned. "So we can say we were sick all day. I'll text Gilbert and Arthur and let them know. That way they won't accidentally mention us."

"Good plan."

Ten minutes later, Alfred and Matthew sped out of the parking lot, determined to review the documents in the relative safety of their apartment, unaware of the events taking place as Gary discovered his vandalized office.

Needless to say, they were very fortunate not to witness Gary's wrath. As Gilbert would later testify, for such a tiny guy he packed a hard punch.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_In which Alfred and Matthew head for the light, and discover that it is in fact, an express train._

Gilbert knew from the moment he got up that today was not his day. The boiler in his apartment was down for maintenance, resulting in a surprisingly frigid shower, and it seemed as though half of Toronto was in front of him in line at Tim Hortons'. And to top it off, Matthew had decided to involve him in Alfred's insane scheme to catch the office murderer.

Hoverer, none of these disappointments could come close to what Gilbert was currently experiencing.

"Oh, this is bad," Gary muttered, pacing his office. "Someone was in here. Someone broke into my office and went through my files. And they took-" He stopped, glaring suddenly at Gilbert. "What do you know about this?"

"I don't know. I took you out to lunch, remember? I've been with you since you left."

"But it's a strange coincidence that you wanted to get lunch on the same day where my files were stolen." Gary's eyes were cold and hard, and Gary found himself backing away. Why the fuck did he let Matthew get him into these situations? "I think you need to calm down," the albino reasoned. "Maybe you just misplaced the files? I mean, don't you lock your office? How would anyone get in?"

"I do…but you held the door for me when we left. Did you close it?"

"Um, yes?" Gilbert groaned sarcastically. "I'm not an idiot."

"Okay," Gary appeared to be struggling to remain calm. "I have to deal with this. If you'll excuse me." He turned back to the filing cabinet, and Gilbert took the opportunity to leave.

First thing he did was call Matthew, because if anyone deserved to know that a coworker had gone psychotic, it was the Canadian.

The Canadian picked up on the second ring. "Gilbert? What's up?"

"I'll tell you what's up," the albino growled. "Your little escapade may have pushed our little friend off the deep end. He's flipping his shit, man. Arthur's already gone home for the day, lucky bastard, and I'm just leaving now."

The concern in Matthew's voice could be heard clearly through the tinny speaker on Gilbert's cell phone. "Holy shit. Are you okay? What did he say? Oh my god Gilbert I'm so sorry, I didn't think-"

"Chill your pants, bro." Gilbert drawled. "Yes, I'm pissed that you left me with someone who's displaying all the attributes of a sociopath, but I'll get over it. I'm not really sure what he was upset about though. Hang on," he growled; hearing Matthew's budding protests, "I'm getting in the elevator."

Matthew paced the kitchen worriedly, phone still pressed against his ear as he listened to the idle chatter in the elevator. He was half expecting to hear shocked screams and someone announcing that the elevator had stopped, but nothing happened. Thirty seconds later, Gilbert resumed he speech.

"Anyway, he's flipping out. He started accusing me of stealing from his office, but I think he realized that I couldn't have done it. I told him that you guys were sick when we were eating, so I think he's ruled you out as suspects. Just be careful, alright?"

"Alright. Anyway, we took a few weird documents that had Craig and Jeff's names on them, but aside from that we didn't find anything." He paused, breathing deeply before continuing. "I'm really sorry Gil. I didn't think he would flip out like that. And I'll admit, it's kind of unfair that we're using him to help our investigation. I owe you a ton."

"Aw, don't worry about it. I know you and Alfred get these crazy ideas sometimes, and it's my job as your manager of mayhem to make sure your plans work. I knew what I was getting into. Well, I didn't know Gary was going to go fucking insane, but that's pretty hard to predict. Speaking of which, did you like that eraser trick?"

Matthew smirked. "That was fucking awesome. How'd you slip that in the door without Gary noticing?"

"I held the door for him and he walked ahead. It really wasn't all that hard. I wouldn't have done it if he had been standing right there."

"Still, that lock was something we should have taken into account," Matthew reasoned. "So thanks."

"Welcome. And it wasn't that obvious. I mean, we all forgot when you went over the plan. I just prepare for these things ahead of time. It's a skill that comes with experience."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not. Anyway," Gilbert continued, "I've got to go. Gary's probably watching the parking lot from his office and he'll get suspicious if I don't leave soon. I've been sitting here for quite a while, you know."

"Alright. Thanks again."

"You're welcome. Just think ahead next time you try to pull off a plan like that. I mean, awesome as I am, I can't swoop in to save the day every time."

"My hero," Matthew muttered sarcastically. "See you later,"

"Ditto. Good luck with your investigation."

Matthew winced as the phone went dead. Alfred hovered anxiously nearby, waiting to hear the aftermath of the investigation. He didn't have long to wait.

"So that was Gilbert," Matthew explained.

"Yeah, I think I got that," Alfred drawled. "Care to move on?"

"Fuck off, Jones. I'm getting there. Apparently Gary flipped his shit, to quote Gilbert. He's going nuts back at the office, though he didn't tell Gilbert why. I mean, Gilbert guessed that he took something, but he didn't know what. Apparently Gary turned on him and started throwing out accusations, which is completely ridiculous because he was with Gilbert all afternoon."

"So he's either forgetful or really panicked," Alfred confirmed.

"Yeah. Apparently he has no idea took the files though. Our names didn't come up once."

"Well that's good," Alfred grinned.

"Not quite. If he's really a killer, he'll do anything to get those documents back. What if he goes after other employees?"

"You're right," Alfred exclaimed. "Should we call Ivan?"

"I don't know. On one hand, we just broke into his office and stole company documents. On the other hand, he's having a fit back in the building and Gilbert seemed wary enough to leave. It's a tough call."

"Maybe we should tell Ivan about our suspicions and leave out the bit about the files? Maybe he'll take Gary in for questioning like we were."

"But he'll mention the robbery."

"He doesn't know it's us."

"But if we visit the commander, our alibi won't check out. He'll know we aren't sick, and he'll put two and two together."

"Place an anonymous tip?"

"Maybe that could work." Matthew murmured. "But then we might be called in, in which case our cover would be blown."

"But we could be saving lives," Alfred argued. "Gary could be stalking someone as we speak. And what would you do if someone died tonight, huh? You'd feel awful."

"But we might be jumping to conclusions."

"Matt." Alfred's eyes were deadly serious. "We have some evidence. Gary is flipping out. He seemed angry and suspicious of Gilbert. Don't you think that's enough to place a tip? We don't have to solve the whole case at once."

"You're right," Matthew sighed. "But we could get in deep shit for this."

"Well then we'll place an anonymous tip and not mention the files. Ivan said that they didn't have any suspects, so he'd probably check out our tip."

"Alright. You can make the call. I don't know what to say."

Alfred picked up their phone, stopped, then put it down. "Should we make the call from a phone booth? That's what the CSI people do when they don't want their call to be traced."

"No, I think the anonymous line guarantees that your identity will remain a secret. We should be fine."

"Alright." The American picked up the phone again, breathing deeply as he punched in the number. An overly chipper female voice was audible from several feet away. Alfred held the phone away from his ear and winced. Finally, after the operator had finished giving her introductory speech, ('Hello, welcome to Crime Stoppers anonymous hotline, rest assured that your identity will remain strictly confidential. Names are not needed… blah, blah, blah.') Alfred began to tell his story. Less than a minute later, he hung up.

"How did it go?" Matthew asked nervously.

"Pretty well, I guess. We'll just have to wait and find out."

Matthew gave a sigh and walked to the kitchen, opening the fridge and giving a small shudder of disgust at the sight of the blob. "Alfred!" he barked. "You still haven't cleaned out your little pet. He's now orange. Get him the fuck out."

"Aw, lighten up," Alfred grinned. He only takes up that one corner.

"It grows every day. I swear it started out the size of a lime. It now takes up the entire back corner!"

"Just wait," Alfred pleaded. "I want to see what colour he turns tomorrow."

"It's not a he!" Matthew exclaimed. "It's mold. It has no gender. On top of that, it's probably toxic and it's corrupting all the groceries."

"You noticed," Alfred cheered.

"What? That you're slowly poisoning me?"

"No," Alfred grinned. "I went shopping yesterday. We have food now."

Matthew couldn't help but grin. "Alright, thanks. I see you actually got good food this time, not just chips and McDonalds."

"I can't buy chips with the grocery money," Alfred explained, "because you always want those gross ketchup chips that nobody else likes. And you complain about my mold." He scoffed.

"What's wrong with ketchup chips? You have ketchup on almost everything else. You just can't be happy, can you? Ungrateful little hipster, liking things until they're actually good and then abandoning them in favour of crappy replacements." He gave a frustrated sigh. "I don't know why I bother."

"Because you love me," Alfred grinned, slinging an arm around Matt's shoulders. "That must be it," the Canadian muttered. "Nobody else would have stuck with you this long."

Alfred gave a mock gasp, dramatically pushing away from his friend. "I'm hurt. You honestly doubt my mad lady-killer skills?"

"Shut up and make your food," Matthew smirked. "We've got a long day tomorrow and I don't expect to spend the cooking by myself. Also," he added. "We're going to play Halo tonight, and I'm going to make you cry like a little girl. Then we're going to watch the Blair Witch Project, and I'll laugh when you piss yourself."

"Whatever, you pissy little bitch. I'll kick your ass any day."

"We'll see."

**xXx**

The next day marked an alarming new development in Alfred and Matthew's investigation. Matthew woke up to a cloud of endless white outside his window, fluffy snowflakes gathering at the edges of the frame and swirling against the glass. He had rubbed his eyes, rolled over and gone back to sleep, not realizing what the snow meant. Now, he was regretting it.

The traffic had been horrible. Half the people on the roads had neglected to put snow tires on their cars, opting instead for cheaper all season radials. 'Fucking morons,' Matthew thought angrily, 'Radials would be great, if only you lived in Florida.' Matthew had, of course, put snow tires on his car at the beginning of December, determined to remain ahead of any freak blizzards. But as he watched countless drivers slide all over the road, sometimes even onto the sidewalks, he realized his effort had been in vain. And so he sat, determined to drown out Alfred's complaints (It's too cold, why did I move here, It's never snowed this much before!) in traffic for two hours.

Finally, they arrived at their building. The parking lot was deserted, and for a moment Matthew feared that the building had been closed down due to the weather (not to mention the two murders). However, upon closer examination, one could see a small group of people milling about in the lobby.

Soon after they parked, Alfred and Matthew approached the entrance to their office building, huddled together under Alfred's car umbrella and doing their best to sprint in synch with each other. Alfred shoved open the revolving glass door with numb fingers, darting out from under the umbrella into a revolving wedge. Matthew cursed loudly, fumbling to get the clasp done up as he stood just outside the entranceway, glaring at Alfred through frosted glass. The Canadian's cheeks were a deep red, flushed from the cold. Finally he managed to shut the umbrella, stumbling through the doorway and nearly collapsing at the warmth of the lobby. Alfred clapped him on the back, dislodging massive clumps of snow that plummeted to the floor to melt. The American had already dusted himself off, if the large puddle a few meters away was any indication.

"You dick," Matthew bit out. "I'm going to kill you. How would you like to walk home, eh?"

"Did you just say eh?" Alfred exclaimed. "Wow, you must be really pissed. Your inner lumberjack is starting to come out. Besides, you're used to the cold. It's only fair that I save myself in the event of a massive freak snowstorm."

"Take your damn umbrella," Matthew growled, already striding toward the elevator. "It's bad enough that we're late; now I'm cold and wet as well."

"Aw, you'll get over it. You're used to this sort of thing."  
>"That doesn't mean I like showing up to work looking like I've fallen through the ice."<p>

"You would know what that looks like," Alfred chuckled. "Tell you what, we can do out for Tim's at lunch. You can get some soup or something."

"Are you fucking stupid?" Matthew exclaimed. "There's a foot and a half of snow on the ground. It took us three times as long to get here this morning, and we didn't even take the highway. We're not going anywhere."

"Oh." There wasn't much the American could say to that.

"Take your umbrella, you dork," Matthew sighed. "We've got a long day ahead of us and I don't want you interrupting me when you decide you'll try to brave the cold again."

"I can totally handle a little snow," Alfred defended petulantly, sticking out his lower lip in a mock-pout.

Matthew's expression flattened. "No you can't."

And with that he headed toward his cubicle, the thin trail of water slowly saturating the grey-striped carpet marking his path.

Nothing much happened that morning. The majority of the employees who had bothered show up the day before had given up and remained at home. Naturally, Gilbert had taken the day off. The largest snowstorm in Toronto's history seemed to be a good enough excuse for everyone to skip. Not that Matthew could blame them. He and Alfred had braved the endless piles of white determined to make it to the office and see if their anonymous tip had paid off, not out of any desire to work.

Even so, Matthew found himself working diligently on a report until lunch, when he finally rose from his chair, cracking his back with a pop and a wince. He visited Alfred, who had spent the morning lamenting the loss of a free holiday, and promptly came to the conclusion that it would be better to eat lunch at the cafeteria rather than head out into the blizzard. The snow was still swirling angrily against the windows, the blaring red lights on the streets below barely visible through the clouds of white. The entire office was dark with the deficiency of natural light. Alfred had taken to commandeering Arthur's sweater, which had been found draped across the Brit's chair earlier in the day.

Lunch was a quick and mainly silent affair. There was no line, and Matthew found himself back at his desk not long after he had left. The most interesting point in the fifteen-minute break had been mumbling his few casual farewells to the small cluster of employees who remained diligently at their posts throughout the storm.

Alfred seemed to be in the same mood as the Canadian, as he remained uncharacteristically silent throughout lunch. Matthew had first thought that his silence was out of shame (for Arthur's sweater wasn't exactly fashionable, with it's red and green stripes and knitted kittens dancing across the chest) but soon came to the conclusion that the American was merely depressed about the weather. The two bottles of orange juice he had bought from the cafeteria juice bar served to heighten this suspicion.

However, nothing could have surprised Matthew more than the muted gasp Alfred gave as he shoved them both behind a cubicle. Matthew was about to curse him out, and sensing this, Alfred clapped a hand over his mouth. He then slowly pointed in the direction of the elevators.

Matthew's eyes widened almost comically. Gary was being led between two police offers toward the stairwell. His hands were cuffed behind his back and it was evident that he had put up a struggle. His hair was mussed up and his untucked shirt had a hole in the elbow. By the way the officers were holding him, Matthew assumed the accountant had tried to escape multiple times.

"Holy shit," Alfred whispered. "Are you seeing this?"

Matthew could only nod, his gaze transfixed on the scene before him. Even as he watched, Gary gave another violent jerk to the left, though the cops expected it and tugged him firmly back into place between them. And in a moment they were gone, striding through the doorway to the stairwell.

"Come on," Alfred whispered, tugging anxiously on Matthew's shirt. "Let's follow them. We're on the fifth floor; the elevator's faster than the stairs. We can meet them in the lobby and watch the whole thing."

Against his better judgment, Matthew agreed. They sprinted to the elevators, hammering the button for the lobby. They were too wrapped up in their investigation to notice the pair of prying eyes that followed their progress.

**xXx**

The lobby was crowded with bodies. Police officers milled about, waiting to catch a glimpse of the suspected killer. Though there were only six officers in the actual room, Alfred could clearly make out several more sitting in squad cars in the parking lot. His face fell as he realized that one of the squad cars had parked them into their space, but his attention was quickly diverted as the clatter of a metal door filled the lobby. Without thinking, Alfred dragged Matthew from the elevator and into the convenience store that made up one wall of the lobby, ducking behind a rack of magazines.

Not a moment later, Gary was led into the lobby. A team of officers informed him of his rights and immediately surrounded him. (Most likely for the second or third time, by the way the accountant rolled his eyes throughout the speech.) Alfred craned his neck to get a better look at Gary's face. His cheeks were red and his eyes darted frantically in their sockets, as if he were seeking a means of escape. Gary seemed more high-strung than usual, though Alfred noted that he no longer attempted to escape the grasp of the officers that flanked him. He seemed resigned to his fate, but rather than mourning his capture, he seemed almost proud of his actions. However, before Gary could be led into a squad car and taken to the station, a tall and imposing figure strode through the revolving door, shaking excess snow from his dark trench coat.

Ivan towered over the other officers in the low light. His eyes matched the cold seeping through the door behind him, and as he fixed his gaze on the young accountant in front of him, a cold smirk spread across his face. To Alfred, he looked positively terrifying, and yet incredibly heroic. He couldn't help but feel a small man-crush grow in his chest next to his blossoming respect for the commander. For a moment, Ivan didn't say anything. He just glanced around the room at the officers present, his smirk dropping when he realized how many people had turned up for the arrest. He motioned for one of the sergeants to come forward, and after a few hastily murmured commands, the officers began to file out of the building. In a matter of minutes, all but two officers had left the premises, presumably to help clear the roads and deal with the lawyers and businessmen who couldn't drive and promptly crashed, fucking up everyone else's' commute. Good times.

The two officers kept a firm grip on Gary's wrists, as though they believed that the lack of officers present may prompt him to run again. Alfred could tell that their fears were unfounded; Gary was terrified. The cool mask had fallen, revealing a very skittish and frightened man terrified of the consequences. And yet, for all his meek attitude and unassuming appearance, he radiated guilt. Ivan must have sensed this, as he seemed to decide against introducing himself or conducting any form of interrogation. Instead, he placed a large hand on Gary's back and began steering him in the direction of the squad car. Before he strode back through the revolving door, he did one last visual sweep of the lobby. His eyes seemed to linger on Alfred and Matthew's hiding spot for a moment too long before passing on. The commander gave a harsh glare in their general direction before turning on his heel and escorting Gary out of the building.

The Russian's cool gaze remained burned in Alfred's memory long after the squad car reversed out of the parking lot. Ivan knew that they were spying. And by the looks of it, he wasn't pleased.

**xXx**

Not much was said after the Russian left the building. Through a silent agreement, Alfred and Matthew decided that it was best to head home and consider the implications of Gary's arrest, rather than stay in the office and run the risk of being snowed in. They arrived back at their apartment nearly two hours later, coated in a fine dusting of snow. Predictably, the orange light on their answering machine was flashing to greet them upon their return.

"God damn it. How much do you want to bet that's the Commander?" Alfred murmured, still a little put out at being caught in his investigation.

"You're probably right," Matthew sighed, slumping into a kitchen chair. Alfred poured walked over to the stove and filled the kettle, setting out two mugs as the water began to heat. Within minutes, the shrill whistling of escaped steam filled their small kitchen.

"Hot chocolate?" Alfred asked, deliberately avoiding any conversation about the murders.

Matthew hummed in assent, rising to grab the mix from the cupboard. "Want milk with yours?" He asked, already grabbing a bag from the fridge. Alfred didn't answer. He knew he didn't have to; the Canadian was just making conversation, finding ways to stall the inevitable. Still, he appreciated the effort. Neither man knew what the consequences for their investigation would be, though Alfred doubted that they would be sent to prison. Most likely they would face charges of trespassing and theft, and do some community service. The bigger issue was the fine that came with the punishment. Though the American had no experience with legal matters, he had a sneaking suspicion that the fine would be huge if they were charged with any criminal offense. He and Matthew would have no way of paying it, as most of their income went to paying the rent and feeding themselves occasionally. Sharing an apartment had cut down costs quite a bit, but Alfred doubted that their savings could come close to paying off a federal fine. If they were being charged, they were fucked. And by the way Matthew was starring out the window, face bleak and desolate, he knew it too.

Alfred finished making the hot chocolate, bringing two mugs to the kitchen table and motioning for Matthew to take a seat. For a moment, they both stared out at the window at the swirling whiteness. Christmas carols could be heard drifting up from the street below them. Alfred didn't have the heart to go down and tell the storeowner that the holiday had ended a month ago.

The warm cloying scent of milk and chocolate gradually filled the room; subtly relaxing both it's occupants. Finally, Matthew spoke. "So where do we go from here?" His voice was, flat and monotone, devoid of any emotion. Alfred winced.

"I don't know. We don't know for sure that Ivan's mad," The American trailed off, hating himself for even suggesting it. The way the Russian's eyes had burned, sending shivers to the American's core when he was met by the commander's hostile gaze, seemed indicative of anger. Homicidal rage, even.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Matthew sighed, rising from his chair to check the answering machine. Within seconds, the commander's cold voice filled the tiny room.

"Good afternoon Alfred and Matthew, I am assuming you know who I am. I am not pleased that you were attempting to stage your own investigation in the lobby today, though you can imagine my surprise when I discovered that there have been other incidents in which you have been prying. I don't know what you think you are accomplishing, but I can assure you that your actions will have consequences. I will be at your door at 6pm today. I am assuming you will be there to greet me, as I don't recommend attempting to flee. I shall see you then." The line went dead with an ominous click.

The apartment was silent save for the ticking of a clock on the counter and the automated female voice requesting that they please press one if they would like to review any other messages. Eventually, even the answering machine went dead, leaving the two men alone to their thoughts.

"What time is it now?" Alfred asked.

Matthew glanced at his watch. "Just past three." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his features. "Do you think he knew we were coming back here?"

"Obviously," Alfred snorted. "I mean, listen to that message. He fucking predicted our every move, and going by the way he was ordering us around, I'm surprised he's not here now. Fucking creepy, man."

"I know," Matthew grinned, glad that Alfred was returning to his old self. They may be destined for a life of poverty or prison, but at least they'd go there with a sense of humour. "Who does he think he is, anyway?"

"No idea. He's a giant, but I think he's just overcompensating for something, you know?" He made a lewd gesture, causing Matthew to burst out laughing. "You're one to talk, Mr. 'Let's Get A Truck to pick up girls'."

"That would have worked and you know it," Alfred argued. "All girls like guys with trucks. "

"I think you're mistaken there, my friend," Matthew smirked.

"No way. You only get laid because of your obnoxious-hipster attitude. Girls sleep with you because they want to reassure themselves that their boyfriends are the right choice, or to convince themselves to go to a nunnery."

"Ignoring how poorly-planned out that come back was, I do not have a hipster attitude. I like tons of mainstream music!"

"Just the fact that you're calling it mainstream is proving my point. Also, what popular music do you listen to?"

"Coldplay," Matthew replied, smirking in success.

"And when did you last listen to it?"

Matthew stopped thought, and sighed. "Before they were popular."

"Bingo."

The rest of the afternoon passed in this manor, with the two friends reminiscing about past victories and playing Halo. As a result, they were both in excellent moods when they met the commander at the door three hours later.

"I see you have chosen to obey my wishes," Ivan growled, inviting himself into their apartment and drawing a chair from their kitchen table. "Come," he motioned for them to sit, "We have much to discuss."

Matthew and Alfred shared a nervous look before obeying, each taking a chair on the opposite to the imposing Russian. For a moment, nobody spoke. Snow swept past the window, coating the ledge. The scent of hot chocolate still lingered in the air, though the room had lost some of its original warmth. Ivan has opted to keep his coat on, and small puddles began to form on the linoleum floor beneath his chair. After a few moments of careful deliberation, the Russian began.

"You have been conducting your own investigation."

Alfred found he could say nothing. Matthew had turned his gaze to the snowy window, as it he could escape on one of the fluffy flakes that drifted by.

Ivan continued as though he hadn't expected a response. "As you know, this is incredibly dangerous, and you chose not to heed my warnings. However, I cannt say your efforts were in vain, as you did help catch a potential suspect." Catching Alfred's look of guarded disbelief, he gave a small smirk. "I'm assuming that you were the people who placed the anonymous tip."

Alfred looked to Matthew for support. The Canadian gave a careful nod, way of providing verbal confirmation. The Russian's message was still playing loudly in his head, and the sudden change in character had unnerved him.

Ivan gave a small smile. "You can relax. I am incredibly angry, and it took several hours to calm down after I saw what you have done, but I am not going to bite your heads off."

"That's not how things sounded when you left your message," Alfred cut in.

For once, the Russian looked abashed. "I have a bit of a temper," he admitted. "I did not want to see either of you get hurt, and after hearing of what you had done, especially your stunt in the suspect's office," he leveled his gaze at them, a flash of anger reappearing behind cool eyes, "I could not help but feel as though you had chosen to completely disregard my warning and take the case into your own hands. Obviously, you did, but I was not prepared for the extent to which you have immersed yourselves."

"Yeah," Alfred chuckled. "We tend to go all out on these things." Matthew elbowed him in the side, persistently staring at the endless snow outside. Alfred took the hint, clamping his mouth shut and leveling his gaze at the Russian.

Matthew was passive and generally opposed to confrontation. Alfred wasn't blessed with that type of endless patience. He started the Russian down, the tension in the room rising an unbearable level. Matthew looked as though he'd rather jump out the window than remain in the same room as the commander.

"I understand your suspicion," The commander sighed. "But that does not mean we can continue this one sided conversation. There is much to discuss, and you do not have many options. You must listen to me."

"Well, how can we say no to a plea like that?" Matthew replied, tearing his gaze away from the window. His expression had hardened, and he met the commander's gaze with one of his own, the quiet fire burning behind blue-rimmed pupils.

The commander seemed taken aback by the Canadian's sudden superficial burst of courage. "I take it you are nervous about the consequences for your actions," he replied, internally gloating when the Canadians eyes flicked back to the window before hardening and glaring back full force. "I'll take that as a yes," Ivan smiled. "Am I right?"

"Yeah, smartass." Matthew's eyes widened at the words coming out of his mouth. He turned a pale pink before stammering out a weak apology, fixing his gaze on the table resolutely.

To his surprise, Ivan let out a hearty laugh. "Now you are beginning to sound like yourself. Hopefully we can get down to business then?"

"Alright," Alfred agreed, dropping his wary façade now that the danger of imminent arrest had passed. "So what do we have to do?"

"You are not doing anything," Ivan growled. "I am still upset that you disobeyed my orders. You are not to investigate this case on your own. You seem to have no idea how dangerous the job of an investigator is. Just placing that tip, you may have gained an enemy." The russian's voice turned pleading, "I need you to realize this. You have no idea how much danger you are in, and yet you both continue to play heroes without realizing that you are chasing a killer. I cannot emphasize this enough."

"But we caught the killer," Alfred objected, giving a small triumphant smile. "We went against your orders, but in doing so we managed to accomplish a goal that your own investigators couldn't. We aren't playing heroes if we actually catch the bad guy."

"Alright," Ivan growled, slamming his fist on the table and wincing when it rattled precariously. Their cheap furniture was not nearly as high quality as his desk at headquarters. "Listen up. I wish to make on thing very clear. You are not heroes, nor have you caught a killer. You brought in a man who is being treated as a suspect, though there is no evidence that currently links him to the crime. His office is still being processed, but from what we can tell he's clean. The only thing we know for sure of is that he has a motive, which I'm sure you have figured out as well." He gave a knowing smirk, delighting in the way the younger men turned to glance at each other in shock.

"Yes, I know about the files that you took. And I would like to have them back, if you don't mind. They are official evidence, and your friend has refused to explain the nature if his notes on similar papers."

"How did you know we took the files?" Matthew asked, forgoing his brave persona in favour of curiosity.

"Gary told us," Ivan relied shortly. "Though he was reluctant to explain what had been stolen or why it was of importance. This is why we need those papers."

"Alright," Alfred mumbled. "You stay here. I'll go grab them."

Ivan gave Matthew a questioning look as the American left the table, striding quickly down the hallway that connected the kitchen to the bathroom and bedrooms.

Matthew gave him a pitying look. "He's built a safe. More of a burrow, really."

"Ah," Ivan replied. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"Soon he'll realize he's not as clever as he thinks. Until then, we can only hope the burrow doesn't go through to the next room." Matthew chuckled, rising from his chair. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, I'm fine thank you," Ivan replied with a grin.

"It's probably for the best anyway," Matthew sighed. "Alfred would probably hear your footsteps and assume you were trying to find his lair."

Ivan gave the Canadian a grin. "Really now?"

"Oh don't your dare," Matthew hissed. "It took me forever to calm him down after one of his friends dressed up as the Joker for Halloween. Poor guy, he hasn't been the same since. I figure he's developed a pathological fear of picture frames and southern men. It's a wonder he didn't sue."

Ivan raised a questioning eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Alfred flipped out. To be fair, we'd just finished watching the Blair witch project and he never handles horror movies well, but he went a little overboard. Threw a picture frame at the kid and ran to his room screaming. He came out a bit later when he realized his mistake. I don't think I'll ever let him live that one down."

"Yeah, thanks bro." Alfred stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the small stack of papers. "If we ever get invaded by aliens or zombies or a huge-ass robot, I'm not saving you. You're on your own, you hear me? I'm not going to waste my food and water on a guy who can't even let one minor incident slide."

"Uh huh," Matthew hummed. "I think I'll take my chances. Now sit down, those files are important and I'm sure Ivan doesn't want to wait any longer."

True to Matthew's statement, the commander was leaning forward in his seat and watching the sheaf of papers in the American's hands with rapt attention. Alfred tossed the pile onto the table with a disinterested thump. It was obvious that he was not happy parting with his evidence. Ivan must have picked up on the American's poor temper, as he turned to face him after scanning through the papers briefly. "Alfred, Matthew," he murmured. "These could be critical to the development of the case. I am quite surprised. Though we found many files similar to these, none are as detailed. This may just be the missing piece of the puzzle."

Alfred beamed. "So what do we do next? Do we go to a lab and compare the writing? Analyze it for fingerprints? No," he stopped himself, "That's dumb. We should use these to get a confession out of Gary and then we can put him behind bars once and for all."

"Maybe so," the commander murmured, "But I believe that there is more to this case than meets the eye. Though the suspect harbored feelings of anger and revenge toward his colleagues, he does not at any point say that he wants to murder them. We have no proof stating that his anger goes beyond that of a workplace rivalry. This is where our case will fall apart in court. It is also the reason I have not called the station and made sure Gary is kept under high surveillance with no chance of bail. We simply don't have enough to go on."

"So we should get him to confess," Alfred argued. "Why can't you just intimidate him like you did with us?"

"Because your colleague is smarter than you think. He showed no fear when I interviewed him at the station and he had a cover story fabricated to seal off any chance I had of throwing him off his game. He was completely prepared."

"He seemed so scared in the lobby," Matthew chipped in.

"I believe that we may have surprised him with our sudden arrest. I don't think he was expecting the vandals who stole his files to report him to the police."

"Or maybe," Alfred countered, "he was putting on an act. Maybe he wanted us to believe that he was scared so we wouldn't think he was guilty."

"Or maybe he was genuinely scared," the commander replied. "There is no way to tell, not now at any rate. We can only hope that these new developments will lead us to the root of the case. Now, I wish to discuss your role in the upcoming investigation."

Alfred grinned, sharing an excited look with Matthew, who rolled his eyes but grinned back equally excitedly. The commander did not look amused. "I do not think I can stress this enough, and since you are obviously not going to listen I will no longer try. Just remember that there may be other players in this game, and they may have been alerted to your presence by now. I have some forms for you to sign releasing the Toronto police from any liability should you find yourselves in trouble."

"You really believe that there may be someone out there planning to kill us?" Matthew asked. "Maybe we shouldn't do this Al."

"No way," the American grinned. "We'll be fine. If Gary didn't catch us when we were snooping through his office, his associated won't catch us now."

"They may not be Gary's associates. As I stated, you do not know who may be plotting these murders. For all we know, Gary is merely a pawn, if he is found to be guilty at all. This is why you must be careful. Do no do anything more than you have been doing. Listen, watch, and stay alert. If you see something suspicious, report it to me immediately. No more of this secrecy, it will only lead to failure and injury. We are working together on this case, or you will not be working on it at all."

"Alright," Alfred agreed.

"I don't know," Matthew cut in. "If you think we're going to be hurt we should probably back out while we still can."

"That is what I would suggest," Ivan agreed. "But I am having difficulty convincing Alfred of this. His continual resistance proves that there is no point in me trying any further, but perhaps you will be able to convince him."

"Alright," Matthew murmured. He had turned his attention back to the window, a soft frown stretched across his pale features. "I'll do my best. Is there anything else we need to know?"

"No, not at the moment. We are still processing evidence and our key suspect is refusing to talk, so I believe we will be at a standstill for the rest of the day. I will arrange another meeting should something turn up."

"You can't just call us?" Alfred cut in.

"Do you not enjoy our conversations?" Ivan grinned at Alfred menacingly. "I hope you do, because I cannot risk speaking about these matters over the phone. Moreover, I shouldn't even speak fo them in your apartment, as there may be a bug recording these very words. I cannot run the risk of having this confidential information disclosed. I'm afraid that all of our meetings will be at the station from now on." He stood up, stretching the pins and needles out of his legs and pulling a few carefully folded forms from his coat pockets. "You will need to fill these out, and then I will take my leave."

Nothing was said as Matthew wordlessly took his form, sighing where it was indicated and returning it to the commander son after. He hadn't bothered read it, too consumed with the anxiety gnawing at his stomach. Alfred turned his in shortly after, thanking the commander profusely for the opportunity to work in tandem with the police forces. Ivan had smiled before requesting to speak with Matthew privately. The Canadian had followed him outside their apartment, albeit with great reluctance. Once they were out of earshot, Ivan began to speak, laying a hand on the smaller man's shoulder as he did so.

"Matthew," he murmured, meeting the Canadian's worried gaze. "I know you are worried about the possible outcome this investigation might have. I can see it in your eyes; you are not meant for cold-blooded murder, and are more levelheaded than your friend in that regard. Remember that you do not have to go along with your friend's ideas all the time. If you feel like what you are doing is wrong or could lead to injury or death, leave. It is up to you to make Alfred see that he is risking both of your lives by continuing with this investigation, and though I can't stop him, I am hoping you can. Even if I were to exclude him from this case, he would continue to investigate on his own, which would be much more dangerous at this point. Pleas make sure to stay safe, and advise Alfred on the possible outcomes of his ideas. And remember," he added, face softening as he gave a small smile, "I am always here if you need to talk. I believe you have mu number?"

"Yeah," Matthew croaked out, unsure of why he felt tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. He fought them down, turning to thank the Russian for his time instead. Ivan only smiled, pressing another business card into Matthew's palm as he turned away. "Just in case," he whispered. "Oh, and enjoy the rest of your day off."

Matthew gave a small smile, which the commander returned before disappearing down the stairwell with a wave.

And although the fact that he could be killed in his sleep was still a glaring red light in the forefront of his mind, Matthew felt the little tense ball inside him break just a bit. The small smile stayed on his face as he reentered his apartment and lay down for a nap. Yeah, maybe he could do this after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_In which the playwright deviates from his script._

Alfred and Matthew strode into the office the next day wearing identical triumphant grins. The snowstorm had broken sometime the night before, and many of the employees had braved the morning traffic and come back to work. The smooth white coating on the ground sparkled in the strong morning sunlight, and most of the drivers from the pervious day seemed to have learned from their errors and opted to take public transit, leaving the road relatively clear.

However, inside the office the tension seemed to triple, and Matthew found himself glancing at the people around him with a nervous energy that had cropped up from nowhere. It seemed like an average workday, a fact that stood out and made Matthew's hairs stand on end. Everything was deceptively normal, and for a moment he couldn't figure out why. Then it dawned on him. From what he could gather, nobody knew about Gary's arrest save for the few witnesses from the day before. The news would most likely circulate throughout the morning, and by lunch everyone would know that the murderer had been caught. The Canadian gave a light chuckle. Though nobody would know, he and Alfred were heroes. And although Ivan's warning still played loudly in his head, taunting him with thoughts of murder and death, he found himself smiling.

However, as he began the arduous walk toward his cubicle, his smile quickly faded, then dropped altogether. He could just spot Gary's figure in his cubicle, leaning casually on the divider. Matthew froze, stopping in the middle of the corridor to stare unblinkingly at Gary's turned back. Gary had returned to the office. Gary had been let out. He felt like he could vomit. He glanced around hastily for a garbage can or bucket-like object just in case his stomach decided to void itself of it's contents unexpectedly. After spotting an empty inbox sitting on an angry looking woman's desk, Matthew returned his attention to Gary.

The accountant's back was turned and he appeared to be engaged in conversation, most likely with Gilbert. Then, with a subtle shift, Gary glanced in Matthew's direction, his eyes immediately locking on the shocked Canadian. Their gazes met, and Gary quickly excused himself from his conversation. He began walking down the corridor, passing rows of cubicles at a seemingly breakneck speed, though he couldn't have been moving faster than a slow walk. His features were unusually blank.

Matthew's blood ran cold. He found himself backpedaling, slowly making his way toward the elevator as Gary moved ever closer. His heart hammered in his chest, blood thrumming through his veins as he frantically looked for an escape. He found none. And then Gary was upon him.

The accountant's face was still blissfully devoid of any emotion. Matthew was still inwardly panicking and any form of expression, be it of anger, sorrow, regret, or happiness would have pushed him over the edge. At first, the two men merely regarded each other, attempting to establish some boundaries or perhaps just establish whether Matthew would be the one to die. The tension between the two was palpable. Finally, Gary spoke.

"Hey, how's it going?"

Matthew's jaw worked uselessly as he tried to articulate his answer. Of all the possible phrases Gary could have come up with, this was the last thing Matthew had expected. Although to be fair, Matthew had been more focused on his fight-or-flight reaction (which was still firmly set on 'flight') than his conversational skills.

"Uh," was his intelligent reply, "Good, I guess?"

He couldn't help but cringe away when Gary brought a hand up to pat his shoulder. "Work getting you down?" he asked, completely oblivious to Matthew's obvious terror. As Gary's hand subtly shifted along his shoulder, Matthew imagined a knife sliding against his throat. He glanced at the inbox again. He had a sinking feeling that if Gary didn't hurry up and kill him, he would need it shortly. "Hang in there, man." Gary continued, searching Matthew's eyes for a response.

The remaining synopsis in Matthew's brain finally connected and he was able to form a semi-coherent response. "Yeah, I guess."

An awkward silence settled between the two. Matthew tried to slow his breathing, though he was sure Gary could already feel quickened breath against his cheek. There was less than two feet's space between the two men, and Matthew didn't feel physically capable of moving his lower extremities.

'Play it cool,' Matthew's rational brain thought. 'If he's really a killer, he won't try anything here. There are too many witnesses.' He almost sighed in relief when another though occurred to him. 'But maybe he's come from the station to finish you off? He could have escaped; you know that the mayor's been slashing the police budget. These could be your last few minutes of life. And wouldn't that be a way to go; your murder would only serve to heighten the political strife in an already tense city council. You'd wind up as 'that kid who died' who gets brought up at every meeting by some ignorant councilor who's desperately trying to prove his point, no matter how inane it is. Do you want that, Williams? Do you?'

"I have to go," Matthew croaked out, sidestepping the startled accountant and striding back to his cubicle, determined to immerse himself in a morning of meaningless work. Nothing clears your thoughts like five hours of repetitive labour. Maybe Gary would leave him alone if Gilbert were right beside him. Or maybe he'd just kill them both. Matthew stopped when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

"So you saw what happened yesterday," Gary mumbled, almost to himself. Matthew's heart nearly stopped. "Funny, I didn't see you."

Matthew didn't answer. He couldn't. What was he supposed to say? 'Sorry, but I turned you in and I wanted to see your arrest but I'm too much of a pansy to watch it like a man so I had to ditch my masculinity and hide behind a magazine rack and then feel guilty for hour afterwards.' Right.

Thankfully, Gary answered for him. "Though I suppose I was preoccupied." He laughed humorlessly, his grip on Matthew's shoulder tightening subtly. Matthew's knees nearly buckled. Gary continued as though he didn't notice the distinct shudder than ran through Matthew's frame. "You have a right to be concerned, I'm sure. I would feel the same way if I had seen one of my coworkers dragged off by a battalion of officers. Well," he chuckled humorlessly, "maybe I wouldn't. Regardless, I can see why you're afraid."

His breath felt hot –too hot- against Matthew's neck. Matthew spun around, confronting the accountant in a superficial burst of courage. "What do you want from me?" He hissed, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.

"Oh, nothing," Gary chuckled. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not the killer they were looking for. They didn't have any evidence, save for a phone call that someone had placed to TIPS Anonymous." His voice lowered subtly, a threatening undertone making itself known beneath his cheery veneer. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"N-no," Matthew stuttered, his confidence lost as quickly as it had appeared. Almost as an afterthought he added, "Please don't hurt me." Way to go champ, good work standing up for yourself. And you totally look innocent too. Yep, you're a fucking mastermind.

"Oh Matthew," Gary laughed, his voice taking on a lilting, singsong quality. "I wouldn't hurt you. I told you I'm innocent, remember?" Matthew could only nod. "But I'd tell the guy who made that phone call to watch his back," Gary added. "Or anyone who might have broken into my office. That's very rude, going into someone's personal belongings and stealing important files. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yeah," Matthew agreed, mentally cursing himself for not saying anything witty. If Gary wasn't suspicious before, he was bound to be now.

"Anyway, I just wanted to say hi," Gary smiled, stepping away and retreating back in the direction of his office. "I hope you have a great day." With that he turned and strode away, leaving a very scared and confused blond in his wake.

Matthew stumbled back to his cubicle, collapsing in his chair and burying his face in his hands.

"Sorry," Gilbert muttered, looking away. "He came looking for you earlier and I was trying to turn him away."

"You could have helped me," Matthew snapped, rising his face to shoot Gilbert an angry glare. "Now he thinks I turned him in. There's no way he doesn't know, I handled that like shit."

"To be fair," Gilbert reasoned, "You were dealing with someone who you believe is a serial killer out for revenge."

"And you don't think he's up to something?" Matthew asked, disbelief etched in his features.

"I'm not saying he's innocent," Gilbert reasoned, "But I don't think I can call him a murderer yet. No offense, but you and Alfred aren't exactly prime detective material. And the real police released him, which means he can't be much of a threat."

"They didn't have any evidence to hold him. He told me." Matthew sighed, burying his face in his hands again. "And now he's going to kill me, because he knows I'm the only person who's suspicious."

"Plenty of people are suspicious," Gilbert sighed. "I don't know if you've realized this, but the news has already spread through our department, and it's only a matter of time before it goes building-wide. Even if he wasn't convicted, Gary's reputation is ruined now. Everyone thinks he did it, which is why I'm hesitant to believe the rumors myself. If he turns out to be innocent, you would have out him through a lot of grief for no reason."

"But if he's guilty I will have saved people's lives." Matthew argued.

"But you don't know what the real story is. Nobody does, except for Gary. I'm not saying you're wrong," Gilbert added. "I'm just reminding you that there are other people in the building to think for."

"You're one to talk," Matthew snapped. "You're the most arrogant person who works here."

"That may be so," Gilbert reasoned. "But I have yet to accuse anyone of murder, and I've been here way longer than you."

Matthew didn't say anything. He couldn't respond to a statement like that. Gilbert seemed to sense his guilt, and reached over to pat his coworker on the back. "Look man, I'm not saying you're doing anything wrong. If you're right, you're right. You'll be saving lives, and at the vary least you'll give those families some solace knowing that they can have closure. I'm just asking you to be careful, and not just because you're potentially tarnishing a guy's reputation forever. Think harder and it'll come to you."

Matthew didn't have to think. Ivan had given him the same speech not 24 hours earlier. "You don't want me to get hurt," he murmured.

"Well I wouldn't phrase it like that, but yes. Look," Gilbert sighed, bringing his chair closer so that his knees bumped with Matthews', "I don't want to sound all emotional and shit, but I don't want to see you dead. And like it or not, you're chasing a murderer right now. Even if nothing comes of this because you're a shitty investigator," he whined when Matthew gave him a slight punch to the shoulder, "Quit doing that, I'm just stating the obvious. Anyway, even if nothing comes of this you'll be on the real murderer's watch list. You're making yourself a target."

"You've been reading too many Hardy Boys," Matthew snapped.

"Nancy Drew, bitch. You wish I read Hardy Boys, prissy motherfuckers with their girlfriends and cars, always doing their dad's dirty work. But seriously, promise me you'll be careful?"

"Aright," Matthew conceded. "Sorry for snapping at you. I just had a really stressful morning with Gary, and I didn't think about it from your perspective. I guess you're right. I shouldn't say anything more about his potential mental disorder. If he's a serial killer, we'll find out in the police reports. Bit I can't help but be curious."

"I'm not asking you to stop," Gilbert smiled. "Just be careful. Alfred won't be able to survive without you."

"Damn straight. Bitch can't cook to save his life."

"Or do the laundry."

"Or the dishes."

Their light banter continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon, where Alfred eventually dropped in for a visit and couldn't figure out the joke. Matthew and Gilbert had cracked up, Gilbert going as far as to fall out of his chair from the force of his laughter. The good cheer however, was not destined to last.

**xXx**

The following day marked a rapid shift in events. Matthew and Alfred woke up to the rhythmic flashing of the red light on their answering machine. Ivan had left another message, requesting that they meet at the police station at 5pm. By the tone of his voice the meeting was urgent. Alfred figured it had something to do with Gary's release, though they couldn't be too sure.

Alfred had been shocked to find that Gary had been cleared less than 24 hours after he had been taken in. After all, he ranted, it had taken him four weeks just to get a background check. How could they release someone who had been accused of murder without even ensuring that he was mentally stable? His questions remained unanswered as he stormed around the apartment, his irate shouting annoying the hell out of a tired Matthew.

"This is ridiculous," Alfred swore, angrily pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Matthew just handed him a cloth and pointed to the puddle of orange liquid dripping down the counter. Alfred took it and rolled his eyes.

"Calm down," Matthew reasoned. "At least Ivan had the decency to call us. Let's just see what all this is about, eh?"

"Why are you so fucking calm?" Alfred snapped, draining his glass in one quick gulp.

"Because I've just paid this month's rent and I don't want to destroy the apartment just yet," Matthew growled, grabbing Alfred's wrist as the American attempted to wrench open a cabinet in his search for cereal.

"Whatever. I don't see how you can just stand there when you know a murderer's on the loose. What if he starts plotting revenge?"

"Well than," Matthew snapped frostily, "I suppose that's something we'll have to figure out when the time comes. Now chill your fucking pants; you're getting food everywhere and I'm not cleaning it up."

Alfred swore loudly and tossed his glass in the sink, flinching as the sound of glass on metal reverberated throughout the kitchen.

"Tabernac," Matthew swore. "Be careful, we can't afford to get more of those."

"Sure we can. There's a Walmart a few blocks from here, and we have plenty saved up. I'm sure we could spring for a glass."

"Just because we have money doesn't mean I want to blow it all replacing useless crap that you keep breaking."

"Why are you so bitchy?" Alfred growled.

"Why don't you take a look in the mirror?" Matthew shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. The friendly atmosphere on the kitchen had completely disappeared at this point, to be replaced with a thick. Pervading sense of doom.

"What is your problem?" Alfred nearly screamed, pacing the kitchen angrily.

"My problem is that you're treating this like a joke. You think you can just run in play hero and nobody's going to get hurt, but you're chasing a killer. On top of that, you're dragging everyone else along for the ride with you and don't even consider what the implications of your so-called heroism could be. You're so selfish!" Matthew gave a shout of frustration before practically sprinting from the room. His heavy footsteps could be heard as he ran to his bedroom. The loud thumping of drawers opening and slamming shut echoed through the apartment, and seconds later Matthew reappeared, carrying his skates and jacket.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Alfred snapped, moving to catch the Canadian before he could make it out the door.

"Out," Matthew huffed. He deftly turned the knob, stepping out and slamming the door shut with a mighty heave. He gave a small smile at the thick shudder that ran through the frame, and then he was off, jogging lightly down the stairs as he made a beeline for the lobby.

"Damn it Matt," Alfred sighed, resting his fist against the door. "Why do you always run?"

**xXx**

After a quick bus ride Matthew found himself at Nathan Philips Square, marveling at the frozen sheet of ice glimmering before city hall. Luckily it was a weekday, and only a little past seven in the morning. The rink was deserted. Matthew glanced around, wondering if he was allowed to skate before deciding fuck It, he would have a skate and if anyone tried to stop him they'd get an unpleasant surprise.

He sat on a frozen bench, rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to get the blood circulating. He soon realized that there was point in trying, and proceeded to clumsily lace up his skated with numb fingers. Five minutes later and he was done, although they were noticeably looser than usual. He stepped across the thick rubber padding around the edge of the rink and glided smoothly onto the ice, immediately quickening his pace as he grew accustomed to the skates. Soon he was doing lazy circles around the rink, his speed gradually increasing as his mind settled on the unsettling events of his morning. He knew he had overreacted, and would end up bringing Alfred some coffee as a pathetic means of apology, but the lingering anger at the American's actions remained settled in his stomach.

Matthew continued skating until 8:30, when he knew he would be late for work if he stayed any longer. Hurriedly unlacing his skates, he boarded a bus and arrived at the office just after 9. A nagging guilt settled in his stomach when he realized that the car keys were in his coat pocket, and as a result Alfred would have had to find an alternate means of getting to work. He had little time to dwell on this fact however, as he saw a familiar crop of blond hair peeking over the top of his cubicle.

"Hey," Matthew muttered, hanging his coat on his chair and booting up his computer. He didn't look at Gilbert or Alfred, both of whom were watching him with rapt attention. Nobody spoke. It was evident that Matthew was supposed to explain himself in some way, although he found that he had nothing to say on the matter. He knew he had to apologize, but with the pressure his friends were putting on him his words were stuck in his throat, jammed between his vocal chords with the other useless statements that never made it past tightly sealed lips. Matthew briefly wondered what the consequences of forever speaking his mind would be, and whether they would be preferable to living forever as a victim of his own damned censorship. He decided against it fairly quickly after realizing how useless his opinion would be in most situations. 'Besides', he thought bitterly, 'my opinion won't make any difference in anyone's life. Might as well just keep to myself and avoid any potential Freudian slips.'

Gilbert coughed, bringing Matthew out of his reverie. "Matt?"

"Oh," Matthew mumbled, "Yes, sorry. Um," he began, uncomfortable with Gilbert's presence and Alfred's unreadable stare. "I'm sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have snapped at you like it did. I didn't mean to take the car keys; I only discovered them on the bus when it was too late. And uh," he coughed. "I shouldn't be acting like such a pissy little bitch."

"Aw," Gilbert grinned, "Poor thing's getting sentimental." He reached over to give Matthew a consoling pat on the shoulder, which the Canadian hastily brushed away.

"Matt," Alfred sighed. "It's not your fault. You're right that I should think of other people more often, and I tend to get caught up in these things, but I can't help it, and I think you know that after four years of dealing with me. Besides, I'm used to your attitude too, and trust me, it's not a big deal. You just worry me when you run off like that, especially after giving a speech about how a killer could go after any one of us at any given time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to hear that and then have your best friend, roommate, and most importantly, the guy who pays the rent walk out seconds later?"

Matthew gave a small cough. He hadn't thought about it that way. But the more he pondered Alfred's suggestion, the more he realized what an ass he had been. "I didn't really think about that," Matthew sighed. "And I should have. I'm a hypocrite and I shouldn't be pointing out your flaws when I am clearly at fault."

"Now, no need to get carried away," Gilbert replied. "Just because you're a little hasty to come to a conclusion doesn't mean you're single-handedly fucking shit up. I'd say you two share the blame equally in most of your little lover's spats."

"Gil's right," Alfred said, nodding in the albino's direction. "So why don't we forget about all this and get some Tims? If you want, we can talk things out over a morning cup of coffee."

"You make it sound like we're going to therapy," Matthew replied, attempting a weak grin.

Alfred gave a full-blown smile in return. "Call it what you want, I just want to get some Tims. Besides, we can't break our morning tradition, man."

Matthew smiled in thanks, shrugging on his jacket. "Then I guess we'd better get going. If we run, we could catch the tail end of the morning rush and get the last of the fresh doughnuts."

"Don't you have doughnuts?" Alfred laughed.

"Only some. I like the chocolate ones, but they're always gone."

"What's the difference? Do you seriously hate every other flavour? They don't even taste that different."

"I don't like how the other types are all fluffy and full of dough."

"Well," Alfred smirked, "They are doughnuts. It's in the name."

"Well excuse me for wanting to keep myself in reasonable shape. I doubt my team would be thrilled if I started eating like you. I don't think my heart could take it. Especially with what you eat."

"You're just jealous."

"Weren't we supposed to be going somewhere?" Matthew asked, pulling a pair of team Canada mittens from a drawer in his desk.

"True that," Alfred replied, turning toward the elevators.

"Uh, guys?" Gilbert asked. "You know you're at work, right? And much as I'd love to leave you to your makeup breakfast, we've got to get shit done at some point."

"Cover for me?" Matthew suggested, already halfway out of the cubicle.

Gilbert sighed. "The things I do for you. Go on, enjoy your youth. I'll stay here to serve my sentence."

"Thanks," Matthew smiled.

"You owe me. Bring me back some coffee, and be back soon. There's a lot of shit that needs to get done."

"Then I guess you'd better start working," Matthew replied with a grin, flashing the albino a smirk.

"Alright then," Gilbert muttered, sighing when they had left. He turned back to his computer, wiping some duct off of the screen with a small cloth he kept specially for that purpose. He then opened his inbox, bracing himself for what he knew would await him. A long list of unread emails jumped out to meet him, crowding his inbox until a small message popped up in the corner warning that there were too many messages to show. With a sigh, he clicked on the first one, noting with disinterest that it was marked with a small red flag, like many of the items in his inbox.

A list of tasks a page and half long spilled out in a poorly worded mess, ending with the bolded statement 'To be completed by the end of the workday'.

Gilbert let his head fall to his desk. "Damn it."

* * *

><p>Thank you for your reviews! Action and suspense in next chapter as we near the climax.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_In which Matthew's suspicions are confirmed, and he finally realizes the downside to being a smartass._

The trip to the police station was long and silent. Traffic was still backed up from the recent snowfall, and neither Alfred nor Matthew wished to bring up any potentially controversial opinions lest they rekindle their feud from earlier. And so they settled on silence and the low hum of the radio. Eventually, even that came to as stop as the DJ began to play a particularly aggravating song.

Matthew gripped the wheel tightly as he fought to keep down the urge to speak. He wasn't usually uncomfortable with silence, as he had grown used to living with Alfred over the course of their four-year friendship, but the anxiety that came with discussing the murders _again_, so soon after their fight left him with a sour taste in his mouth. He pulled into a parking space in the back parking lot of the police headquarters, resting his head on the steering column as soon as the vehicle had stopped moving. He stayed like that for a few seconds, savoring the feel of warm leather against his forehead before reluctantly pulling himself up, opening the door and mourning the loss of the warmth that had accumulated in the car. Alfred followed silently, the subtle crunch of footprints in the snow announcing his presence to the nearly empty parking lot.

Ivan greeted him at the entrance to the station, holding open a wide glass door and motioning for both men to step inside. The commander gave a small smile as Alfred shook snow from his boots and led them to his office, pushing two plastic chairs forward until they collided with the edge of his desk. Alfred took the hit and sat down, raising an eyebrow when Matthew continued to stand by the door.

Commander Braginski's office was large and ornate, not something you would expect from a former member of the violent crimes unit. His desk was a large and ornate, the dim lighting highlighting the multitude of brown hues that shone through the mahogany. Matthew wondered briefly where the commander had purchased the desk, and whether there was a special allowance in the police budget for such expenditures.

Ivan gave a subtle cough, and Matthew hastily sat down, embarrassed at being caught staring. Even as Ivan began shuffling through the large stack of papers on his desk, obviously gathering documents of relevance to the case, Matthew was taking in the intricate details of his office. It was far nicer than his cubicle, to say the least.

The door was that of your typical office; a basic frame surrounding ripped glass with a nameplate attached to the centre. However, once you steeped through the door, you would be transported into an 18th century style room, complete with a small, ornate, desk lamp that appeared to be the room's main lighting fixture. Several antique wooden shelves lined the walls, bowed under the heavy weight of countless novels. Matthew could barely make out the titles on the spines, each of which varied in colour and texture and clearly indicating the variety present in the commander's collection.

The burgundy walls muted the sounds from the hallway, leaving the office in a comfortable state of near-silence. The doorframe didn't seem very thick, and Matthew suspected that the office had been soundproofed. Matthew imagined that it would be much easier tow work in Ivan's conditions than in a tiny cubicle with a hyperactive albino nymphomaniac. He didn't say anything for fear of being offensive.

Ivan gave another cough, directing Matthew's attention to the stack of papers heaped on the desk. The blond noticed Alfred giving him a concerned look out of the corner of his eye, and gave a small smile. Ivan chose that moment to begin.

"I am sure that you have both heard of Gary's return to work, correct?" he began, pausing to gauge his audience's reaction. The statement, while unsurprising, was not well received.

"Yeah," Alfred growled. "And whose fault is that? So much for having him locked up. Why didn't you guys keep him here?"

"There is a small problem," Ivan replied calmly, "in your assumptions. No law enforcement group, regardless of clout or importance, can prevent the bail of a man who had not been confirmed to be a criminal."

"I thought you only needed to prove that he may be connected?" Matthew asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"We can't prove that he's connected," Ivan replied. "He has refused to cooperate, and had a lawyer ready to defend him within an hour of his arrest. Since the evidence we have does not explicitly state that the suspect has any connection to the two victims other than that of a business professional, the evidence did not hold up. Furthermore," He added, catching Alfred's belligerent glare, "Your testimonies don't prove a thing, as they are based on your own speculations. We can't lay a finger on him until we come up with more substantial evidence."

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?" Alfred demanded, hammering his fist against the desk angrily. Ivan didn't flinch, giving a small smile when Alfred quickly retracted his hand, rubbing at the soreness.

"I did not think that the evidence would be overturned. While I knew it would not be enough to keep him here for an extended period, I underestimated the suspect's capabilities. He had this planned from the start, evidently."

"You're one of the most important people here! You're like Horatio on CSI Miami. How could you not have predicted this?"

"There were many variables," van sighed. "And I did not want to give up hope. I thought that we might be able to get something out of him, even just a slight slip of the tongue before his lawyer could get to him. I was wrong. He refused to give us more information than was required by law. I am almost completely convinced of his guilt as a result of this, although I am powerless to act on my suspicions."

"So go out there and find more information."

"I can't. As I have tried to tell you, we cannot just burst into people's houses and demand that they come with us. I cant steal people's belongings to use as evidence, nor can I take them out for drinks to gather intelligence. It doesn't work that way when you investigate crime in a large organization. Everything has to be reported, categorized, and investigated thoroughly. It sometimes seems like the system is against itself for these very reasons; we go through such efforts to ensure that no innocent man is presumed guilty that many of the true criminals are able to escape. And there's nothing I can do about it, not with the way the budget is currently structured."

"The media probably gives you a lot of grief as well," Matthew added. "From what I gather, they usually don't take your side in these disagreements."

"That is true," Ivan began, "But it is not a cause for concern. While law enforcement and authority in general is often rejected in popular media, it does not really hamper or investigations. There are of course some exceptions, the G20 protests being a prime example, though I can admit that our officers were to blame in many of the incidents described in the reports. As a result, I have come to live with the journalists, and have decided that they are a necessary evil. After all, it is often civilian empathy that makes a critical difference in solving a case."

"Is that why you asked us to help?" Alfred asked.

"No," Ivan snapped. "As I have told you before, I am not asking you to help us in any way. In fact, I continue to strongly discourage you from continuing your activities regarding this investigation. I cannot stress the danger enough. Your lives are at risk here. However," he sighed, "You have been a help in this case. You may have helped identify our killer, though we cannot be sure until we acquire some form of hard evidence."

"So what needs to be done then?" Matthew cut in. "What would constitute hard evidence?"

"At this point?" Ivan sighed. "Nothing short of a murder weapon, I'm afraid. Unless you can find something that directly links the suspect to the crime, and trust me, he was incredibly careful, we have no way of keeping him in custody. The killer was incredibly careful in his acts, as he made sure that there was no genetic evidence on the victims or their surroundings. Whoever the killer is, he's incredibly knowledgeable."

"Well," Alfred pointed out, "It doesn't take a lot of brainpower to remember to wear gloves."

"This goes far beyond that," Ivan replied. "There was no evidence whatsoever. No witnesses, fingerprints, skin cells or hairs. He must have been incredibly meticulous, as he was able to track the first victim to his home, predict his habits, break in, and perform his deed without leaving so much as a trace. The fact that he was able to do it again in a crowded office building is even more impressive. Whoever this man is, he has a mind like a steel trap."

"So how are we going to prove this? It sounds like we're at a dead end."

"That's where you come in, unfortunately," Ivan replied, his sullen gaze meeting Alfred's eyes. "I'm afraid our best chance of catching our killer is through the information provided by firsthand sources."

"So you want us to keep investigating?" Alfred asked excitedly.

"Hang on," Matthew cut in. "I don't think that's going to work. Gary saw me yesterday and I panicked. I think he knows we turned him in."

"Then I advise you to act normally for the next while to lure him into a false sense of security, though I cannot guarantee that this method will work. We do not have any other options and I'm not about to put you in more danger. Besides, any evidence you find may not be acceptable for use in court, as you will most likely have stolen it. For that reason, I'm afraid we can only hope to gather some form of evidence without performing any tasks that are considered unusual. If you break into his office and steak more evidence, it may not be available in court. However, if you are invited into his office, or need to drop off a report and happen to see something, the evidence could be used."

"But he's not going to keep a murder weapon on his desk," Matthew pointed out. "How are we going to accomplish anything?"

"We have no other options at this point. We can only do so much."

"Alright then," Alfred decided. "So we'll just keep following him around then. You had to call us into your office for that?"

"No," Ivan growled. "I wanted to update you on our findings. Obviously you feel you have no need to hear what I have to say, so you are free to go."

"No," Alfred interjected. "I want to help," he muttered sulkily.

"Well pay attention then. We have discovered that the suspect has an abnormal interest in the affairs of his supervisors and other privileged employees. He keeps detailed notes on their involvement with any transaction, though we have yet to establish a link to the murders as a result of this. The suspect, as you know, is not fond of any of his coworkers, with the exception of your group apparently. I would expect him to be more suspicious from now on, so I don't believe he'll be quite as open as he was before."

"He was open before?" Alfred retorted.

"He confessed his hatred of other employees." Ivan replied smugly. "Would you not say that is a fair amount of openness with peers? Especially if he was willing to discuss his anger after two of his coworkers had been found dead."

"He was _drunk_."

"Regardless," Ivan ploughed forward, "we can infer that the coworkers he displays the most animosity toward will be his next victims, if he is indeed the murderer."

"So shouldn't you warn them?" Matthew asked. He tried to mask the worry in his tone, but the anxious sideways glance Alfred shot him made it evident that he had failed.

"I wish we could," Ivan replied. "We have sent them each a notification that there is increased risk in the workplace, but we cannot name the suspect until we have more conclusive proof. However, I am hoping that the suspect's public arrest will notify the occupants of your building that he is not to be trusted. It is probably best that they find out in that manor, as gossip and demonstrations almost always work better than any scripted message."

"What else did you find out about Gary?" Alfred asked.

"The suspect has been paying special attention to your company's pension fund, although there is no evidence that he has any reason to. We requested an update on all accounting personal and their work habits from the head of the department, and he gave us several printed sheets on each person. They were generally useless, stating only names, occupations, and the files they had accessed, but they did serve some purpose. We have determined that the suspect has not accessed the money, but he has been accessing pension files more often that usual."

"Are accountants even allowed to go into pension stuff?"

"It depends on the company, though the payroll manager and others in Human Resources may be more knowledgeable about pension concerns in this case."

"So he's trying to embezzle the pension money," Alfred concluded. "But why would he kill people?"

"We have no idea if embezzlement is the cause of his activity, though it seems to be a likely conclusion. However, we cannot prove that the suspect is after the pension money at all. Perhaps he is merely curious about how much he will receive when he retires."

"Well, you have to admit, that's something Gary might do," Matthew jumped in. "He's a pretty meticulous guy. Maybe he's planning for a trip?"

"Really Matt?" Alfred rolled his eyes. "That's the best you've got?"

"Well I don't know," Matthew snapped. "All I can say is that he's smarter than you give him credit for. He notices things that other people don't. Maybe he's a killer, maybe he's not. Either way, going into the files is something that he would do, maybe even as a hobby. He's obsessed with the general ledger, maybe the pension plan is just another weird office fetish?"

Alfred and Ivan gave him equally blank stares. Matthew turned a deep red, cursing his word choice silently. "Haven't you noticed that he spends all his time talking about the ledger? I'm just making suggestions here. There have been weirder kinks."

"Well, you would know," Alfred smirked, giving Matthew a light punch in the shoulder.

Matthew wished the floor would just hurry up and swallow him. He ducked his head, mortified. "I'm not that weird. Besides, at least I don't have a hero kink."

It was Alfred's turn to look embarrassed. He muttered something incomprehensible before looking to Ivan to switch the topic. The Russian gave a gloating smirk before continuing his pervious train of thought. "While I find it fascinating that you know how to please each other sexually, I believe we should return our attention to the matter at hand."

Alfred scooted his chair away from Matthew, giving him an apologetic glance. Matthew looked bewildered. "Sorry man, no offense. Just got a really awkward mental image right there."

Matthew pondered this for a moment before a look of revulsion crossed his face. "You are so _gross_," he groaned, slamming his head on Ivan's desk. At least the Russian had the grace to blush. He wondered whether he should check to make sure Matthew was still conscious, as the blond had stopped slamming his head across the wood and had resorted to lying limply over the paneling, looking like someone had told him he was Paris Hilton's lovechild. If that were possible. Thankfully, it wasn't.

"I think that is enough for the day," Ivan finally declared, rising from his seat. Alfred and Matthew reluctantly followed, each subconsciously keeping a meter's distance from the other. Ivan gave a small chuckle at the awkward tension that filled the air between them. It was nearly palpable, though thankfully it had mainly dissolved by the time the trio reached the front entrance to the station. Ivan bid both men farewell, giving a small smile as Alfred shook his hand professionally and Matthew apologized profusely for their less-than-professional discussion. He watched as the two men strode back outside into the darkening sky, chuckling lightly as Matthew shoved Alfred into a large snow bank that had built up beside the front steps. Eventually he pulled himself away from the glass, determined to remain in his office and sort through the remaining case files. He had work to do.

**xXx**

Matthew found himself surrounded by a myriad of junk food. Alfred had dragged him to their usual grocer store on the way back from the station, claiming that they were low on food again and he needed some chips of else he'd be a train wreck in the morning. Matthew didn't have the heart to tell him that he was already a train wreck, and the addition of more fried food would only make it worse. And so Matthew found himself staring at a large rack of Cheetoes, absently wondering how people could eat the neon-orange noodles and live to tell the tale. He had been standing in the store for a good few minutes, absently watching as the American debated the merits of purchasing salt and Vinegar chips as opposed to cheetoes. Matthew had picked up his own groceries earlier, and they sat at the bottom of the shopping cart, slowly flattening beneath Alfred's mountain of crap. Matthew was glad they shared grocery money; at this rate there would be nothing left of the bread and eggs he had picked out, and if Alfred wanted to destroy his chances at getting French toast for breakfast, at least he was paying for the loss out of his own pocket. Matthew gave a sigh and pulled his healthy (and fragile) foods from the bottom of the cart, depositing them safely on top of the stack of microwave popcorn Alfred insisted they buy.

Matthew looked to the storefront, absently staring out through the large front window at the blackened parking lot beyond. It hadn't felt that late when they were leaving the Russian's office, but the darkness seeping into the store through the winter sky made him double check his watch when he saw that it was only 8:15. He found himself wishing they could just buy their groceries and leave already, so he could go home and curl up with a nice book or perhaps a Halo match or two. Either way, he was sick of watching Alfred contemplating the best means of eating himself to an early grave.

"Hey, I'm going to wait in the car." Matthew announced, rolling his eyes when Alfred ignored the statement in favour of demanding that they get both types of chips before the sale ended.

Matthew strode out of the store, intent on relaxing in a semi-warm car while Alfred wandered aimless through the store for another half hour. He wouldn't turn on the heater, because that would require energy and Matthew was loathe to turn the car on if he wasn't going to drive it, but he could turn on the lights without giving himself hell about destroying the earth's atmosphere. Maybe he'd catch up on some reading, Matthew knew he wouldn't get another chance to read in peace until Alfred either fell through a wormhole or moved out. Neither option seemed plausible. Matthew reached into the deep pockets of his coat, fishing around for the car keys. They always disappeared when he needed them most, like in the middle of a frozen parking lot, for example. His fingers had just closed around the thin metal rod when he was roughly grabbed and jerked away from the car.

A gloved hand covered his mouth, muffling his startled shout. At first, he shoved irately at the person behind him, expecting Alfred to have forgotten his wallet. When his arm collided instead with a large, bulky chest, Matthew realized his mistake. He began thrashing frantically, and his assailant moved so that both of Matthew's arms were pinned at his sides, and his mouth was still infuriatingly covered, drowning out his cried for help. A deep, rolling sound alerted him to the presence of two other men. They clambered out of the open door of a deep blue van parked a few spots away. Matthew could have slapped himself; even as he was being molested he couldn't help but roll his eyes at the cliché of the situation. Then he was back in full-blown panic mode, shouting frantically as his arms were roughly grabbed and tied behind his back with plastic ties. It dawned on Matthew that his only chance of escape had been effectively eliminated, and he began to truly panic.

He was dragged to an alley between the Sobeys and the darkened décor store next door. He had enough presence of mind to lean forward and protect his head as he was slammed none too gently against the moss-covered wall. The man who had been covering his mouth shifted to that his hand was splayed across Matthew's neck, pressing just enough to warn the blond that any sudden movements would not be well received. The message was received loud and clear.

The two other men, wearing ski masks and black leather gloves, stood in front of him. Matthew couldn't make out their features through the masks, and even if they hadn't been wearing them he would have been too blinded by the haze of panic and fear that had settled over him to take note of the fine details of their appearances. However, he was still aware enough to discern their basic shapes.

One man towered over the others. He appeared to be at least seven feet tall, though the heavy work boots he wore may have added to his stature a bit. His shoulders were broad and undoubtedly well-muscled, and Matthew could just catch the faint popping noises as he cracked his knuckles.

The other man was slightly shorter, though still taller than Matthew. He was incredibly skinny, and reminded the blond of a scarecrow, as his legs seemed as thick as toothpicks when compared to the rest of his body. Though he was lanky, Matthew knew he was dangerous. The glint of a knife in his hands confirmed it.

Matthew couldn't get a good look at the man pinning him to the wall, and he wasn't about to turn his head to get a better look. By the size of the fingers pressing into his throat, Matthew assumed that he was built like a truck.

"Now then," 'skinny' said, "Let's get down to business, shall we?" He leered at his captive, showing rows of crooked yellow teeth. Matthew tried to blend into the wall.

"Hold him, Frank," the skinny man ordered. As he felt the grip on his throat tighten, a large hand snaked behind Matthew's back, gripping the ties that bound his hands together and pulling harshly. The blond gave a low groan as he felt the strain in his shoulders.

A splitting pain erupted in his jaw. Matthew let out a sharp cry, trying and failing to flinch backwards. His head spun, and he could barely make out his attacker. Even so, he thrashed furiously for a good few seconds, and seeing that it wasn't working, quickly resorted to shouting very loudly. This too was prevented rather effectively as Matthew felt a thick hand press down on his windpipe. His cries petered off to a dull series of retching coughs.

"You're not going to try that again, are you?" A deep, cold voice whispered in his ear. Matthew shook his head 'no' to the best of his ability. Frank seemed to have got the message, as the pressure on Matthew's windpipe lessened somewhat.

"Now," the skinny man continued, "you'd best listen up. You've been snooping around too much. You're getting involved with risky business, stuff that would be better left alone, you got that?"

Matthew nodded empathetically.

"Well good. But I can't just let you go. See, we have to make sure you're learning here. We wouldn't want you to go back to your old ways, would we?"

Matthew frantically shook his head.

"So you understand why I have to do this." And then another punch was delivered, this time to his abdomen. Matthew felt proud in a sick sort of way that he didn't flinch as badly as the last hit. He recanted his thought seconds later when he was struck again in the nose. Blood spattered to the pavement, and warmth flowed down his face. He coughed again, causing more blood to fall.

"Now look what you're done." More talking in front of him, this time between skinny and the quiet giant. The low tenors seemed to reverberate through Matthew's bones. He let his head drop to his chest and focused on breathing. Someone smacked him. "Listen to me when I'm talking, or you'll wish you were never born."

"Okay," Matthew rasped. His voice was hoarse and thick.

Another hit, this time to his left eye. Matthew thanked the lord that the thugs didn't have brass knuckles.

He lost track of the punches after that point. He just knew that they got progressively harder, and at one point the tall, silent giant from before decided to join in. When the behemoth of a human hit him in the ribs, Matthew could have sworn he heard a crack. The sudden excruciating pain on his right side would certainly validate that theory.

It seemed to last forever. His vision had gone dark, or perhaps his eyes were closed. He couldn't tell anymore. His mouth tasted like iron, and when he licked his lips the metallic tang only grew stronger. His knees had given out at some point and the men were forced to adjust his position. Frank was now holding him from his underarms; occasionally giving a hard squeeze that caused the ribs on Matthew's right side to grate together horribly.

And then he heard a small gasp coming from behind him, and he was shoved up against the brick wall once more. He groaned softly, instantly regretting it as a large palm clapped against his mouth and the pressure returned to his windpipe. However, the damage seemed to have been done. Matthew's arms were released, and he dropped unceremoniously to the ground, giving another pained groan as his chest hit the cold pavement.

"We've got to go," Frank rumbled, already leaving the alley.

"Right," the skinny man agreed. "Rajed, you know what to do."

Two sets of footsteps echoed in the night as they headed back to the parking lot. For a moment, Matthew thought he was alone. The he was hoisted up by the collar of his shirt and thrown bodily against the opposite wall, where he slumped to the ground. His head hurt terribly from the beating and the impact, and he felt as though he were about to vomit. He wasn't given the opportunity. Large fingers pressed into the bruised skin of Matthew's neck, lifting him up again. Matthew didn't have the strength to cough anymore. His stomach flipped and churned, though no noise made it past his lips. He was shoved against the wall and pinned by the same hand around his throat while his attacker dug through his pockets, withdrawing a cruel looking switchblade. Matthew gave a small whimper.

"You know how it is," a cold voice whispered. "We can't leave any evidence, now can we? Besides, I doubt your friend will continue prying if you're out of the picture."

The cold steel was pressed against his neck. Matthew tried to shake himself free again, but the concussion, beating, and asphyxia had taken their toll. He was as good as dead. Matthew's ears were ringing painfully, the noise growing louder by the second. His attacker suddenly tensed, withdrawing the knife and turning to face the entrance to the alley. Then he turned back to the blond, gave a small, sadistic smirk, and whispered, "Well, now you're really beginning to get on my nerves. I'd love to stick around, but I think this is good-bye. Here's a little something to remember me by."

And then there was nothing but searing agony. Matthew howled, the sound mutating in his damaged throat as the pain overwhelmed his senses. And then he felt no more.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_In which Alfred displays a stunning variation of emotion, Matthew gets beat up, and far off in the distance, the mysterious blob at the back of the fridge moves a few scant millimeters to the left._

Alfred had never hated himself more. He had just finished picking out his preferred flavour of chips and was in the process of paying when an elderly woman ran into the store. She appeared to be hysterical, and kept shrugging off the concerned touches of store employees, insisting that she use the phone. Alfred had muttered a hurried apology to the cashier before abandoning his groceries to see what the commotion was about. He handed her his cell phone, almost grabbing it back when he realized what number she was calling. He quickly thought better of it, and urged the small crowd that had gathered to remain quiet. Not that he really needed to; nobody was going to pass up the chance to overhear the woman's conversation. Her words still haunted him.

"Yes? Hello? I'm calling from the Sobeys on Bay Street; there's been an attack. We need an ambulance." Alfred's blood ran cold. The woman continued as though she hadn't noticed the sudden shock that rippled through the crowd. Her clipped, British accent rang out in the sudden silence. "I was just leaving the store when I heard what sounded like a cry for help, and sure enough, there was a young man being attacked in the alley beside the store. No, I don't know what injuries he has. No, I didn't get a good look. I understand. Yes, I'll stay on the line." By this point, Alfred had stopped listening. There was only one person on his mind: Matthew.

Alfred made to leave, but the old woman grabbed his arm angrily. "Where do you think you're going?" she snapped. "There are a bunch f hooligans right outside the store. You should stay here until the police get here."

"But I know the guy in the alley," Alfred blurted out. "Matthew, I have to help him."

The woman looked at him with something akin to pity on her wrinkled features. "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do at this point. The men could have guns, dear. You'd only be doing yourself more harm by trying to help your friend."

Alfred wanted to kick her. He wanted to punch her in the face and tell her that she was wrong and march out the door. But he knew she was right, and the terrible truth filled his arms with stone and his heart with lead. He gave a small sigh and moved to stand by the door, anxiously looking out at the blackened sky. The store's manager, a short East Indian man who looked to be in his early forties, moved to stand next to him. Alfred knew that while his presence was meant to be a comforting gesture, he could see that the manager was willing to do whatever it took to keep the American from leaving the building. He narrowed his eyes and turned back to the parking lot. Soon, sirens could be heard. They grew louder by the second and soon he could see the flashing lights pull into the parking lot. He rushed out to greet them, ignoring the manager's startled shout.

Alfred caught a quick glance of a dark van pulling out of the parking lot; it's tires skidding on the slippery roads. Several officers streamed from the two squad cars, spreading out to form a barrier over the entrance to the alley. The man who appeared to be in charge rushed into the dark passageway after deeming it safe. Seconds later, he gave a sharp shout. Another officer, this one carrying what appeared to be a trauma kit, hurried forward. At this point, Alfred couldn't contain himself any longer. He ran toward the alley, ignoring the shouts of customers and managers alike. Just when he thought he would reach the crumpled body in the alley, a burly police officer caught him by the shoulder and hauled him back. Alfred nearly screamed in frustration. There was still a small part of him that believed that Matthew might be safe in their car, though he knew in heart that it was highly unlikely. If Matthew had been in the car, he would have rushed out as soon as the officers arrived, if not sooner. The Canadian was naturally curious in that regard. And yet as Alfred gazed hopelessly at the crowd of spectators, he knew Matthew wasn't there. And the only reason Matthew wouldn't be there is if Matthew were in the alley.

"Sir," The officer snapped. "Please step away from this scene. You are interrupting an incredibly serious investigation and obstructing justice. Given your dramatic appearance and the nature of the incident, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with us."

"No," Alfred gasped. "You don't understand. My friend is in there!" His voice cracked as he continued. "Is he alright? Please, let me see him."

The officer's face fell slightly, and his features softened in such a way that Alfred knew exactly what was coming. He braced himself for the worst, shutting his eyes in advance to quell the flood of tears that were already pricking behind his eyelids.

"Your friend… is in critical condition, from what we can tell. It is too early to determine the extent of his injuries, but we have determined that he was been beaten and stabbed. He also appears to have suffered a blow to the head." As if on cue, an ambulance sped into the parking lot. A team of paramedics immediately rushed toward the alley bearing a stretcher.

"I need to see him." Alfred emphasized. "He'd want me to be there."

"We need to remove him from the scene before you can go near him. However, you may be able to come along with him in the ambulance. There is plenty of information that the paramedics will need to know, and I'm sure you can help them out with that. However, you must remain calm of you are to do this. These are medical professionals and you will only be hurting your friend if you cause them any inconvenience."

"I understand," Alfred chocked out. He paused for a moment, mustering up his resolve. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

The officer sighed. "I don't know. We haven't been able to determine the extent of his injuries, and I'm no medical expert. I also didn't get a good look at him. I don't want to give you any false hope, but I wish you the best."

"Thanks." Alfred gave a smile, and although it had plenty of teeth, it had no heart.

The officer walked him to the ambulance and introduced him to the lead paramedic. Alfred was given a small chair in the corner farthest away from the equipment, though he was still close enough that he could touch the instruments if he really wanted to.

And then they brought the stretcher, and Alfred couldn't help but let out a small keening wail. Matthew lay limp on the white-padded board; his normally wheat-blond hair caked with blood and dirt. His skin was covered with blood, as were his clothes. His coat was spread open, revealing a horrible bloody wound in his stomach. There were sterile peach bandages piled on top of the bloody mess, but the blood was already seeping through, tinting the fabric brown.

The paramedics slammed the doors shut and secured the stretcher with alarming efficiency, and within minutes they were pulling out of the parking lot. Things were no less chaotic in the ambulance. Two paramedics remained in the back tending to Matthew while the remaining one drove. Alfred could only catch snippets of their conversation, as he was too absorbed in watching the unsteady rise and fall of Matthew's chest. He watched the paramedics as they applied various dressings to his wounds, prodding the unconscious blond occasionally and making soft remarks. One woman placed a clear Plexiglas breathing mask over Matthew's nose and mouth, distorting his features and silencing the frail breaths that Alfred had been listening to with rapt attention.

Alfred spent the rest of the rude straining his ears for any sign of life coming from his unconscious friend. He was almost grateful when they turned up the volume on the pulse monitor. As cold and impersonal the metallic beeping was; it gave him some reassurance that Matthew was, at least for the moment, safe.

When they reached the hospital, Alfred and Matthew were separated. Alfred knew that it would inevitably happen, but he was still uncomfortable leaving Matthew's side, especially when he was partly to blame for the Canadian's condition. While the team of doctors swarmed Matthew's unconscious body, Alfred was shunted in a different direction. He found himself in the waiting room, in front of a large desk monitored by a stern-looking woman. She peered at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses, wordlessly handing him a stack of papers and a pen. Alfred stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. She gave him a soft prodding. "We need these forms filled out so we can treat your friend properly." She then shooed him in the direction of a small, private room. Alfred sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair and began to write.

**xXx**

Several hours later, Alfred was called up to the front desk. The same woman as before was till running the counter, though she didn't appear nearly as stern. The cause of her sudden cheer may have been caused by the realization that Alfred remained the only person left in the waiting room, as many of the other patrons had left long ago when visiting hours ended or their emergencies had been cleared up. Alfred had been mildly surprised when people gradually left, though he supposed he couldn't blame them. It would probably be best to get a good night's sleep and then return in the morning. Of course, Alfred chose to remain right where he was, sprawled across a line of plastic chairs. He had given up acting like a reasonable adult long ago. And so, lying despondently in the nearly empty room like a lost puppy, Alfred diligently waited for news of his friend's recovery, desperately hoping for the best and refusing to think of the worst.

Naturally, he was filled with a mixture of glee and dread when his name was finally called. The receptionist brought him into a small room aside from main waiting area and informed him that a doctor would be in to speak with him shortly. She turned with a soft smile and went back to her desk, shutting the door behind her before Alfred could begin his barrage of questions.

Alfred traced his finger over the fake wood table, tracing inane designs as he waited for the doctor to arrive, Though he appeared tired and bored, his stomach contents seemed to be performing a circus. He rubbed his palms together and took a breath, willing himself to stay calm.

An elderly man in a lab coat opened the door and took a seat opposite to him. The man had thick graying hair, and wore a pair of patterned argyle pants that clashed brilliantly with everything in the room. The doctor didn't seem to notice, and Alfred assumed that it was his way of bringing some subtle humour to the situation. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then the doctor gave a long sigh, the air whistling through his nostrils as he met Alfred's concerned gaze.

"Your friend came here with serious injuries obtained in a physical confrontation with an unknown instigator. You are aware of this, correct?"

Alfred gave a small nod, fearing the worst.

"Then you must know that everything I am about to tell you mist remain confidential. You have signed forms that acknowledge this, but your verbal confirmation would be welcome."

"Yeah," Alfred whispered. "I know."

"Now, this confidentiality is binding only until the victim is able to come to his own conclusion as to whether the details of his injuries should be released. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Alfred repeated. Ever moment the doctor spent explaining the legal process, Alfred's terror grew. He tried to console himself, reasoning that Matthew wasn't dead, or else the doctor wouldn't be giving him a lecture on confidentiality. _'Or'_, a little voice inside him argued, '_Matthew's not dead, but dying.'_ Alfred refocused on the doctor's words.

"Now," The man continued, "I suppose we should get down to business. Mr. Williams sustained extensive injuries to his face and ribcage. He has fractured three ribs, dislocated his shoulder, and sustained a nonlethal puncture wound to the abdominal area. Furthermore, he has sustained a severe concussion and several minor injuries, which led to a total of 23 stitches and will heal relatively quickly."

"Can I see him?" Alfred asked. He didn't think he could handle hearing the doctor speak of the normally vibrant Canadian in such an impersonal, concise tone.

The doctor's features softened imperceptibly. "I'm afraid Mr. Williams is under general anesthesia, and will remain unconscious for several hours. I suggest you come back in the morning. Visiting hours are from ten till seven, should you wish to come back then. I cannot guarantee that he'll be awake, as he lost significant amounts of blood and this takes quite a toll on one's body, but the likelihood of consciousness will increase."

"Can I maybe see him now?" Alfred asked.

"Mr. Williams is recovering from treatment at the moment, and visitors are not usually allowed in the recovery room. However," He paused, seeing the hopeful look on the American's face, "I believe I can make a slight exception if you keep brevity in mind."

"Alright," Alfred agreed. "I can do that."

They walked down a series of narrow corridors, passing rows of darkened grey-green doors. The doctor seemed intent to make the journey in silence, and Alfred surmised that the doors led to the rooms of sleeping patients. He wondered if Matthew were in a room with a similar door, cool impersonal metal save for a small, darkened window. Alfred hoped not. They turned down another hallway. This one was much wider, and the doors were more spaced out. Upon examining the small plaques beside a few, he realized that these were operating rooms. He shivered. Matthew must be close, then.

They turned down another hallway and stopped in front of a blue-grey door. The doctor swiped a small card, a small beep emitting from the lock. The door was pushed open and Alfred walked in as though he were in a trance. There was no light, save for that of a few instruments hooked up to the limp body on a large, rectangular hospital bed. A soft, steady beeping filled the room. After a moment, Alfred realized that it was Matthew's heartbeat.

'Well,' Alfred thought to himself, 'At least it sounds normal. Not that I know anything about medicine.' His mental voice took on a darker edge, 'that's right fucker. So don't you even think about making assumptions. He could be on life-support for all you know.' Alfred decided that he really needed a better conscience.

He crept over to Matthew's still form. His nose and mouth were covered by an oxygen mask, amplifying his steady breaths for the room's occupants. An IV was taped delicately to the inside of his wrist, leading to a small bag filled with clear liquid that hung from a metal pole to the side. Another bag, this one containing a deep red liquid. Blood, Alfred realized.

He hesitantly reached out, brushing a few stray locks of blond hair away from Matthew's face. Matthew gave no response. Alfred stared for a while, absorbing the situation and coming to terms with his grief. Matthew looked just as healthy as he did before the confrontation in the alley, albeit a little paler. It was hard to believe that he wasn't just sleeping. Alfred almost had the urge to shut by his ear like he used to, just to see the Canadian's panicked reaction as he woke. He knew it wouldn't do any good in this situation though, so he refrained.

After a few more minutes, Alfred made to leave. He stopped halfway through the doorway, ignoring the doctor's surprised look as he crept back to his friend. Alfred grasped the bland, white hospital sheets and pulled them up closer to Matthew's chin, tucking them in around his arms. Then he left, refusing to take another look at the unconscious man on the bed.

Alfred didn't get any sleep that night.

**xXx**

The next day, Alfred returned to the hospital, determined to wait until Matthew regained consciousness. He had woken up at eight, stared at the empty kitchen, and wondered why there was no breakfast on the table. Then it dawned on him that Matthew was in the hospital, and from there he came to the realization that should Matthew stay overnight for more than a week, Alfred would perish from malnutrition. Keeping this in mind, Alfred quickly got dressed and drove to McDonalds for breakfast. Normally he would be at Tims, but Tims didn't feel the same without Matthew. Besides, he wanted some good ole' southern comfort food, and if that came in the form of three breakfast burrito's with orange juice, so be it.

Alfred arrived at the hospital just before 10, determined to visit the Canadian as soon as he was able. He had gone to a florist after his 'healthy' breakfast at McDonalds and purchased a bundle of vibrant yellow daffodils, which he was currently clutching as though the fate of the universe rested solely on whether Matthew received his daffodils. Maybe it did. Physics is weird that way.

After a quick chat with the receptionist, Alfred was led through the maze of corridors again. He came to Matthew's room, and after flashing a grateful nod to the attendant as she opened the door, stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

Matthew lay on the bed, still unconscious. Alfred noticed that the sheets were un-tucked, but then realized that it was probably the work of a nurse. The absence of the past day's oxygen mask seemed to confirm his assumption. The clear mask had been replaced by two twin tubes, which ran up either side of Matthew's face, tucked around his ears, and met at his nose. Alfred utilized all his knowledge of House and ER, the only hospital-dramas he had seen in his 24 years of existence, and came to the conclusion that the tubes were filled with oxygen. He felt his heart sink a bit. Matthew was obviously unconscious, and the likelihood of him waking seemed to diminish by the second. Alfred stared stupidly at the bundle of flowers in his hand. He glanced around the small room, looking for a vase or similar container that he could put them in, but found none. Eventually he let himself out, wandering the halls until he found another attendant. This one seemed a great deal younger than the other staff he had seen, and upon reading the nametag clipped to her scrubs he discovered why: the girl was an intern. The intern, _Laura_, according to her nametag, seemed to realize his intention before he could voice it and she quickly rushed in the other direction, returning a few moments later with a clear glass vase filled with water. Alfred nodded in thanks as she walked him back to Matthew's room and opened the door.

"Don't you think it would be easier if you just locked the whole building? That way you wouldn't have to follow people like me around to let them back into rooms," Alfred remarked, giving the attendant a small grin.

"Nope," She replied, already heading back down the hallway. "Because if you saw the people in the psyche wing you'd probably demand that we reinforce the doors. The locks are the least we could do, trust me."

"Okay then," Alfred remarked. He stepped into Matthew's room, shutting the door quietly behind him. How Matthew had managed to get a private room was beyond him, especially since Matthew clearly wasn't able to show anyone his benefits card. Healthcare may be free, but a private room was certainly not. Alfred supposed he would find out then he got the bill. He gave a small sigh. So much for their trip to Whistler next winter.

He placed the flowers on a small table beside Matthew's bed before pulling up a green plastic chair. Alfred retrieved Matthew's medical records from a table nearby and sat down with a sigh. He glanced at Matthew's sleeping face and began flipping through the files, glancing Matthew's face and checking his watch every so often.

It was nearly noon when Matthew woke. Alfred had finished reading the medical records and had resorted to texting and playing games on his phone. He had just lost (again) at Angry Birds when he heard a small groan. Matthew's eyes flickered open, sluggishly panning around the room before settling on Alfred. Alfred cracked a weak grin, determined not to tackle his friend out of sheer, mind numbing, _relief_. He opted instead to clasp Matthew's hand tightly in his own, relishing the way Matthew squeezed back reflexively.

It was evident that Matthew had not fully recovered, and was still under the influence of the anesthesia in his system. He tried to focus on Alfred, but the American could tell that it was a struggle. Every so often Matthew's eyes would flicker shut, and Alfred would give his hand another squeeze to prompt him to wake up. This cycle continued for some time, the repetitive motions relaxing both men (though Alfred doubted Matthew needed any more relaxing) and slowly coaxing Matthew back to full awareness.

"Ah, Alfred?" he rasped, his voice cracked from disuse and foggy with sleep.

"Hm?" Alfred hummed, giddy with excitement and determined not to let it show.

"Where am I?"

Alfred's face fell. "You're in the hospital, Matt. Do you remember anything from last night?"

"Last night?" Matthew slurred. "We, we were shopping, right? And then, something happened. In an alley."

"Yeah," Alfred gave a sad smile, "Something did happen. That's why you're here, but I'm pretty sure you're not going to remember anything since you're barely conscious. You'd think they'd ease up on the drugs."

At that point Matthew seemed to realize where he was. Unfortunately, he also became aware of the numerous devices attached to his person. Slowly, as though he were underwater, Matthew lifted a hand to his face. He clumsily maneuvered his fingers 'till he grasped the breathing tubes around his nose, marveling at their existence. Alfred, sensing Matthew's next move, quickly pried his hands away from the plastic. Matthew gave a low whine, then lost interest and began playing with the IV taped to the inside of his wrist. Alfred grabbed both hands, clasping them in his own and praying the Canadian wouldn't come up with a new means of fiddling with medical instruments. He needn't worry; the bedridden blond had already forgotten about the instruments and was staring determinedly at the vase of daffodils sitting by his bed.

He seemed to contemplate a question, his face betraying his thoughts before he had a chance to voice them. Alfred settled in for the wait; the Canadian seemed to be taking his time reassembling his brain. The American couldn't really blame him; the guy had suffered a severe concussion and it was bound to have some side effects. Alfred wasn't going to push his luck. If Sidney Crosby was out for almost a year because of a moderate concussion, Matthew should have been in a coma with the injuries he'd sustained.

"Al?" Matthew whined.

"Yeah?"

"Why are there flowers?"

"Oh, um. I brought them for you because you're in the hospital and isn't that what you're supposed to do when someone's hurt? I mean, I'm not one for social conventions but I thought you might like them pleasedon'tlaugh?" Way to go, Jones. Even when Matthew's in the hospital he reduces you to a quivering mess. That's some backbone you've got there; I can go to Walmart and get one just like it.

"That," Matthew rasped, a tired smile gracing his waxen features, "is so gay." He gave a few chuckles, which quickly turned into a series of strangled gasps. Eventually they subsided, and Matthew flopped back into the pillow and shut his eyes, focusing on steadying his breath.

"Yeah well, nice to know my kindness is appreciated," Alfred grumbled, his words lacking any real malice.

Matthew gave a wan smile, cracking open one eye. "I never said I didn't like them."

Alfred's grin could have lit up a northern Inuit community during their winter darkness. Matthew grinned back, growing more coherent by the second.

"Here," Alfred murmured. "I'm going to find a way to prop this bed up so you don't have to crane your neck like that. You've been through a lot."

"Nothing I can't handle," Matthew groaned lightly. He gave a small whine, "I'm so confused."

Alfred hushed him lightly, crowing with delight when he found the remote to operate the bed. After some impressive guesswork, he managed to get the front portion of the bed to rise up to a 45-degree angle. Matthew gave a small giggle as the bed moved. "This feels weird. Let's go again."

Alfred gave a small grin. "If this is what you were like during your stoned escapades in University, everything makes sense now."

Matthew's mood began to somber some time later. Alfred had entertained him to the best of his ability, even going as far as to stage a puppet show with his hands (hell, Matthew was so out of it he probably thought they were real people) but eventually the Canadian's mood had to fall.

"Al," he whined. "Why am I here? Everything hurts."

Alfred sighed. This was not his day. "Matt, you were in a fight. I've told you at least three times now, but you never seem to remember. I don't see the point in discussing this when you're just going to forget and ask me again in fifteen minutes. Matthew looked as though someone had kicked him, and he turned his head away sadly. "Oh, okay," he replied softly, shutting his eyes.

Alfred immediately felt guilty. "Aw Matt, you know I didn't mean it that way. I know you're trying. I just think we should wait until we see a nurse or someone who can tell us what's really going on. I mean, I've read your medical records, and they say nothing about what you're supposed to be feeling right now."

Matthew gave a small sniffle. "I'm sorry. You don't have to stay. It's not fair of me to keep you here. Please don't feel like you have to stay."

"Matt, you know I'm not going anywhere. I've stuck with you for too long, and don't think a little trip to the hospital is going to change anything. Just relax; we'll find out what's going on and work from there. Don't forget that you're on an IV right now, and I don't know what's in it but I'm willing to guess it's painkillers because no offense man, but you're high."

Matthew managed a small smile. "Thanks Al." They were silent for a bit, just relaxing in each other's company. Eventually Matthew shifted, eyes staying closed even as a small grimace crossed his face.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, refusing to think of the blood and terror of the ambulance. Matthew was recovering right now. Even if the cloying scent of blood still lingered in his nostrils, haunting his dreams and tormenting his waking thoughts, he wouldn't show it. Even so, he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering over Matthew's stomach every so often, reassuring himself that he was indeed alive.

"Yeah," Matthew groaned. "Just hurts to move. I guess those thugs really got me, eh? What a shame, I could have kicked the crap out of them on the ice."

Alfred gave a bark of laughter, the sound suddenly dying as the faint click of the door opening filled the room. Matthew had gone silent as well, and his eyes were trained on the sudden interloper. A redheaded nurse who looked to be in her thirties strode into the room carrying a clipboard. Upon seeing the two men, she gave a wide smile.

"Hello Mr. Williams, it's good to see you're awake."

Matthew gave a small nod of thanks, wondering how to respond. The nurse didn't seem to notice, and moved to address Alfred. "And you must be Mr. Jones. I've heard a lot about you; gave us quite a scare last night. We were afraid you wouldn't leave, you know."

Alfred snuck a glance at Matthew, whose cheeks had gone a light red at the mention of Alfred's manic concern. Upon catching the American's gaze, Matthew gave a small smile of thanks. Alfred blushed. The nurse coughed.

"Anyway, I'm just going to disconnect a few of these," the nurse pointed to the IV's hanging from the pole, "and then we can fill you both in. Does that sound alright?" Alfred nodded, struck by the intensity of her green-eyed gaze. Matthew followed suit. The appearance of the nurse seemed to have left him cowed.

"My name's Abby," the nurse continued, "And I'm just going to tell you what I'm doing here, unless you'd rather I didn't. I find it's usually best to keep patients informed on the healing process. I find it helps keep things calm." She gave a grin. "First of all, I'm going to have to disconnect this IV, since you're no longer in need of blood." Matthew nodded dazedly, as if he just realized he had an IV in each arm. Abby took his arm in deft fingers, requesting that Alfred hold Matthew steady as she gently withdrew the needle from his skin. Matthew had shuddered as the thin metal moved under his skin, but, but otherwise remained stationary, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Finally Abby finished, unhooked the various components of the system, and disposed of the needle in a yellow bin labeled 'biohazard'.

"Now," She continued, "I'm going to ask you a few questions to determined how well you've been reacting to the treatments. Mr. Jones, your participation is also required, as I believe you may be more informed about Matthew's initial response to the medication we have given him. I assume you were in the room at the time of his awakening?"

"Yes," Alfred affirmed. "I was there, but I don't know much about medicine so you'll have to bear with me if I mess up." He gave a small grin, "I know Matthew's pretty much mastered that art."

Matthew grinned, shooting the American an appreciative look.

"Alright then, let's begin," Abby announced. "Mr. Williams, can you please tell me how you feel at the moment? Are you experiencing any dizziness or drowsiness?"

"Uh," Matthew began, "I'm not sure. I'm not really myself, and I'm sure Alfred will agree with me on that. I'm kind of tired, yeah. Not too dizzy, but I haven't tried standing up or anything so I can't se sure."

Abby looked to Alfred for confirmation.

"Yeah, he's a lot better now than he was when he first woke up. He was really out of it then. When he first opened his eyes, he was essentially still asleep. It took him a good few minutes just to form a sentence."

Abby looked slightly concerned at this, and made a few small notes on her clipboard. "Can you elaborate? Was he having difficulty speaking, interacting with his surroundings, and understanding you? Did he appear dizzy?" She prompted.

"He was generally out of it. I think he was just tired or fighting off the after-effects of whatever drugs you gave him, because he's been gradually getting more aware. There is one thing though. He's having some difficulty remembering what I've been telling him. I have to repeat certain statements multiple times before they stick in his memory. Is that normal?" he asked, praying that it was.

Abby sighed, her cheery demeanor evaporating like water on a hot summer's day. "I'm afraid this may be a result of the concussion he sustained. Short-term memory can be affected, though the effects themselves vary from person to person. There is a good chance that his memory will return to him over the next few weeks, though his injuries were fairly severe; to the point that we feared he would slip into a coma at one point. However, as I said, the effects vary from person to person, and judging by your description of his recovery this morning, the effects will not be permanent. However, I would advise you to take caution when playing sports or doing any physical activity, as concussions will become more dangerous is he suffers more head trauma."

"Alright," Alfred nodded. Matthew looked fairly distraught, and he took his hand and squeezed it in comfort. Matthew gave him a pleading look. "Don't worry," Alfred soothed. "You're going to be fine. I know you heard everything she just said, and you know just as well as I do that you're going to recover from this as long as you stay positive. I'll help you out; I've done it plenty of times in the past, I'm sure this will be no different."

Matthew still looked concerned. Mustering up his courage, he turned to face Abby. "What are the long term consequences?" He asked, fearing the worst.

"Well with luck you'll be fine. You're well on your way to recovering, and the only injury that could potentially limit you in the future would be your concussion. Although, if you allow me to go over your full medical file, you'll realize that you're not going to be doing anything strenuous for the next few weeks."

"Wait," Matthew moaned. "What about hockey?"

"I'm afraid that's out of the question until you're fully healed. However, I know many hockey teams are doing baseline concussion testing. If you had access to the testing, do you mind giving us a copy of your scores? They may help us accurately judge how much time you will need to recover."

"No," Matthew sighed. "Our team hasn't done the tests yet. Can I play in a few weeks?"

"I'm afraid that depends on how quickly you recover. Mr. Jones will be left to determine that, though I strongly suggest that you call us to ensure that you're not rushing your recovery."

Matthew's face fell and he resumed fiddling with the sheets around him. "Okay then." Alfred gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

"Don't worry man, you'll be back on the ice in no time."

Matthew smiled weakly. "Thanks. Can we continue? I'd love to know why my side is hurting so much."

"So lets get down to business then, " Alfred chipped in. "I saw a doctor last night who said Matthew's got some fractured ribs?"

"Yes," the nurse admitted. "He's fractured his fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs, though they will heal fairly quickly. Fortunately, they were only hairline fractures. As a result, Matthew will be given pain medication for the first week after he is released."

"You hear that Matt," Alfred grinned, "pain meds. A little hipster like you must love that idea."

Matthew shot him a withering glare before apologizing to the scandalized nurse. "I'm sorry, he does that sometimes, some form of verbal diarrhea I think. He just spouts off whatever comes to mind without thinking."

Abby nodded warily. "Regardless, I strongly advise you to take them only as directed. The medications we give you are powerful, and there can be terrible consequences in the case of an overdose."

"Thanks," Matthew smiled. "I'm not planning on taking many. Pills always seem to fuck up my system. I mean, for the first hour after I got up it felt like someone was trying to pull my brain out my ear."

"Alright," Abby smiled. "Glad that's settled, though the headaches may be a result of your concussion, rather than the medication."

"Eh," Matthew sighed, "It's probably a bit of both. I don't think a headache would be enough to convince me that this lump," He slapped Alfred's arm, "is entertaining. And yet?" He gave a small smirk.

"Well," Alfred sighed, glancing at his watch. "That lasted an hour and a half. Probably the best 90 minutes of my life. Looks like regular-Matthew is back."

"Hey," Matthew snapped, "Don't listen to him. He's only upset because he can't destroy the apartment anymore. I'm back to being his babysitter."

"Aw, you're not my babysitter," Alfred cooed, "You're my chef. I nearly starved to death this morning."

"Anyway," the nurse cut in, "We should probably get back to the topic at hand. Mr. Williams, you were stabbed in the lower abdomen by an unknown man, though thankfully no organs were damaged. You're going to have a bit of a scar there, though. I advise you to refrain from stretching the area or exposing it to unnecessary stress, and please don't pull at the stitches. They will come out on their own as the tissue heals. I have a sheet of instructions for you that explain how to wash and treat the wound at home, and I'll be giving them to you on the way out."

"Alright," Matthew conceded, prodding gently at his stomach. He gave a small wince and decided that maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

"I have a question," Alfred jumped in. "I'm been wondering about this for w a while, but now seems as good a time as any to bring it up. This is a single room. Isn't this going to cost us a fortune? I mean, I know you guys have your free healthcare and all that jazz, but I don't think it's this good."

"Well, you're right about that," the nurse laughed. 'Normally, patients are put into a standard room with three other beds. However Mr. Williams, you are a special case, as we have been informed that he may be a victim of a known criminal. For this reason, you are being isolated and protected until you can be questioned. You aren't responsible for any residence costs, so you needn't worry about any financial burden that this visit may have caused you. I believe the regional police have a fund set aside for this purpose. An officer was here this morning, actually. He had a Russian sounding name; I believe it was Mr. Braginski. I suppose he was hoping you'd be awake."

Matthew and Alfred exchanged worried looks. The nurse didn't seem to notice. "He left you a gift though. Let me go grab it for you; I think you'll love it."

With that she swiftly left the room, leaving Alfred and Matthew to process the new information.

"You were attacked by Gary?" Alfred exclaimed, almost forgetting Matthew's injuries as he shook the Canadian anxiously. "How did he do this to you?"

Matthew hissed at the sudden pain that flared up from Alfred's nervous attentions. Alfred quickly let him go, and he gratefully sunk back into the bed. "It wasn't Gary." He paused, shutting his eyes, trying to remember. "There were three of them, I think. They looked like thugs. I think someone hired them to do the dirty work, because the didn't seem to have any real connection to the case." Alfred was nearly vibrating with excitement and worry. "Oh my god, Matt, and you had to face all three of them alone! I shouldn't have let you leave the store." He ducked his head angrily.

"Alfred, stop. You know you couldn't have prevented this. But Ivan was right; were dealing with some dangerous people here."

"I shouldn't have pushed so hard with this detective thing. I didn't realize how serious things are and now you're in the hospital and its all my fault and-"

Matthew cut him off. "What's done is done. It's not your fault, although we both should have taken Ivan's advice more seriously. Besides, it made me realize that you were right."

"Right about what?"

"About the importance of catching this guy. If he's send people after us, we must be getting close. More importantly, your hero complex actually has some merit. Whoever this guy is, he's not afraid to kill people who have nothing to do with his scheme. He's more dangerous than I thought."

The click of the door opening signaled the nurse's return, and both men immediately went silent. "Here it is," Abby smiled. She carried a vase of brilliant yellow sunflowers, a card, and a tin of Tim Horton's hot chocolate. Matthew's mouth watered at the last item. Abby set them down on the table next to Alfred's flowers. The American noted that they looked rather scrawny in comparison to Ivan's gift. He glared at the flowers jealously before realizing that he was being a complete idiot. "Open the card," he suggested, wincing at the biting jealousy in his voice. Matthew quirked a thin eyebrow before complying, opening the envelope and withdrawing a simple greeting card. It had sunflowers on the front. Alfred rolled his eyes. Of course the card would match the flowers. Fucking precious. Matthew was more focused on the words inside, and remained oblivious to Alfred's fit of irrational jealousy. Maybe he was compensating for something.

"Well this is interesting," He murmured, bringing Alfred's attention back to the matter at hand.

"What?"

"His message."

Alfred took the card from Matthew's outstretched hand, his eyes scanning the Russian's smooth, flowing script.

_Matthew,_

_I am incredibly sorry to hear of your accident. I cannot say what I wish to in a greeting card, and I'm sure you can figure out why; though you may have to explain it to Alfred. I have been informed that you will be released this evening. Though it is not ideal, I will meet with you then. Focus on your recovery; I will seek you out when the time is fitting. Please keep these matters to yourself. I need not explain why. I shall see you in the near future, for there is much to discuss._

_Be well,_

_Ivan Bragniski._


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_In which a murderer is beaten at his own game._

Matthew was discharged from the hospital at seven o'clock that evening. His ribs had been taped with a splint, and Alfred had been given specific instructions on how to reapply the dressing in the event that Matthew had to remove it.

"When would ha have to remove it?" Alfred had laughed. "It's staying on until his ribs are fixed, don't you worry."

"Uh, Al?" Matthew had asked, rolling his eyes. "I intend to shower sometime in the next few weeks." Alfred had refrained from commenting after that.

Matthew had also been given a small container of painkillers with specific directions not to use them unless absolutely necessary, and not to take more then one every 6 hours. Matthew had grimaced and nodded; the pills were the approximate size and shape of small bullets, and he dreaded having to choke them down. On top of the unpleasant swallowing sensation, Matthew dreaded having to deal with the mind-numbing mental effects. The nurse had detached his IV sometime after explaining the details of his treatment, and Matthew had promptly boasted that he wouldn't require and more pain medication. He was a hockey player, after all. He retracted the statement a few hours later, when every breath he took sent hot spires of agony through his ribcage. To top it al off, Alfred spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to play doctor and fussing over him like a mother hen, only backing off when one of the doctors came in the midst of one of Alfred's examinations and requested that he stop tampering with Matthew's bandages please, or he would be ejected from the premises. All in all, the trip to the hospital had been a humbling experience for both men.

Matthew had collapsed on the couch when they got home, demanding that Alfred bring him hot chocolate and blankets, and then play halo. Alfred agreed, still feeling somewhat indebted to the Canadian after he had essentially taken a beating for him. They still hadn't discussed the incident and they had come to a silent agreement that it wouldn't be brought up until Ivan's visit. So they sat on the couch, goading each other on and laughing when Matthew couldn't seem to shoot anything, an upsetting discovery for one of the best snipers of the game. It became apparent that Matthew's hospital experience had exhausted him, as he became less and less active in the game to the point where he simply nodded off in the middle of a multiplayer team match, thus destroying Alfred's chances at winning, not that he really stood a chance anyway.

The American quit the round and looked over at the slumbering Canadian curled up next to him. He gave a soft smile and tucked the blankets up to Matthew's chin, propping his head up on a nearby pillow and gently prying the game controller out of his hands. Alfred cackled maniacally as he entered Matthew in a 1 on 1 match, setting the controller on top of the sleeping man's knees and wrapping slim fingers around the plastic. The Alfred turned back to his own controller, snickering to himself as he shot Matthew's character repeatedly in the head. Matthew's score plummeted in the bottom corner of the screen. Alfred smirked. Payback's a bitch.

Ivan found the two men in the same position some time later. Alfred had grown bored of Halo and switched to Mario Kart, and was taking great delight in Yoshi's panicked squeals as he shot at him with red shells. Ivan coughed lightly, fighting to quell the smirk that arose upon seeing the American so involved in his vendetta against the animated turtle. Alfred spun around in shock, driving his kart into the lake as he did so.

"Good evening," Ivan rumbled, moving to sit on the edge of the couch. Alfred hurriedly put away the game, rushing to the kitchen to grab the commander a seat.

"Hey," he gasped, setting the chair down in front of the couch. "Sorry about not having a chair in here. I'd suggest we move things to the kitchen, but Matt's ribs are acting up and I think he's more comfortable here."

Matthew gave a soft snore in agreement.

"I see," Ivan frowned. "I was hoping he would be awake for this, though I can hardly blame him I suppose."

"Yeah," Alfred sighed, "He's been through a lot. I owe you an apology, by the way. I know I got really caught up in the case, and just look at what happened. You're right."

"I am not the one who needs the apology," Ivan replied, his eyes flicking to Matthew's prone form. "But I suppose he has already forgiven you."

"Yeah," Alfred smiled. "For such a passive-aggressive little bitch, he can be pretty sensitive if he wants to."

Ivan gave a small chuckle. "You're lucky to have such a great friend. You are even luckier that he is alive. I presume you know what happened?"

"Actually, he hasn't told me much. I knew three guys came after him and beat him up pretty badly, but he hasn't said anything beyond that. I think he doesn't want to breach the subject just yet, and I can't really blame him."

"Yes, I can see why," Ivan agreed. "But we must discuss the matter eventually. Waiting will only give our killer more time to strike."

"What's with all this 'our killer' business?" Alfred snapped. "We know it's Gary. At least use his name. Speaking of Gary, he's in custody, right? Because he'd better be after what he did to Matthew."

Ivan gave a low sigh. "Alfred, Gary is not the killer."

"What?" Alfred exclaimed, eyes narrowing to angry slits. "How can you even say that you bastard?"

His angered shout roused Matthew from his sleep and he gave a low groan, blue eyes flickering open and settling on the arguing men across the room. He licked his lips, moistening his mouth before speaking. "Alfred? Ivan W-what's happening?" Alfred was by his side in an instant.

"Don't worry Matt, everything's fine. Although," he shot the commander a glare, "I was wondering the same thing."

Ivan sighed. "Perhaps we should discuss this in full when Matthew is ready."

"No," Matthew groaned, "I'm fine. Please don't let me stop you." He dragged himself up into a seated position, determined to participate in the conversation (Or at least keep it from faltering completely).

"Matthew, I wish for you to remain calm as I tell you this. I know you are under a lot of stress at the moment and I don't want you to reopen any of your injuries."

Matthew's stomach sank and he wondered what sort of news Ivan was keeping from him. He nodded in agreement all the same. "Alright, don't worry. I'll be fine."

Ivan glanced at him skeptically. "Perhaps I should come back at another time. I know I am being incredibly rude at the moment, and I apologies, but given your current condition I can't help but-"

"Just tell me already," Matthew snapped. "I'm going to worry either way at the point."

"As you wish." Alfred, you'd best take a seat as well." Surprisingly, Alfred did as he was told without complaint.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I'm afraid our suspicions about Gary have been proven false. Or rather, he can no longer be considered a suspect."

"What?" Alfred screeched. "Did his lawyer spring him? So help me, I'm going to kill that little bitch if he shows his face in the office tomorrow."

"Alfred," Ivan growled sharply. "That is not what I meant. Gary had been," he paused, as though contemplating the best way to break the news, "murdered." The dramatic confession was diminished by the sound of the sound of Alfred's superman clock striking from his room. Nobody spoke as the last automated 'up, up, and away!' filtered through the apartment. Alfred had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

Matthew, on the other hand, appeared to be experiencing a mild panic attack. "What do you mean he's dead?" he exclaimed, immediately wincing and gasping, hand going to his side to clutch at his ribs. He seemed to be struggling to breathe. Alfred immediately rushed to his side, prompting Mathew to slap his prying hands away angrily. The Canadian then proceeded to curl over one arm of the couch, shut his eyes, and breathe as deeply as he could without causing the pain in his ribs to flare up again.

Ivan and Alfred exchanged worried looks, more concerned about Matthew's health than the imminent danger that presented itself in the form of a new killer. Eventually Matthew's breathing slowed, and he was able to face the commander with burning eyes. "What do you mean dead," he growled, still managing to put up an intimidating front despite his apparent injury.

"Ah," Ivan started, "I'm being perfectly clear. Gary is dead. He was found in his home office, surrounded by loose papers –it appeared the room had been ransacked at the time of the murder- with a knife in his throat. Coincidentally, the knife matches what we believe would be the murder weapon, though we have yet to find DNA evidence to prove this. It was covered with the victim's fingerprints, which makes me believe that it may be the knife we're looking for, though for the same reason we cannot rule out the possibility of self-harm."

"So you're saying Gary was the killer, but he's not the one we're looking for?" Alfred's voice cracked, betraying his sudden anxiety.

"We cannot be too sure, but I believe so."

"So there are two killers. Possibly more. That's just fucking peachy," Matthew growled. "But that still doesn't explain the thugs. I mean, what killer hires people to do their dirty work? That defeats the whole point of being a serial killer, don't you think?"

"That's why I came here to warn you," Ivan responded gravely. "I believe we are no longer dealing with your casual killer. No, I believe these deaths have been orchestrated as means of achieving a greater goal. We aren't dealing with a serial killer, my friends. We are dealing with a mastermind."

"Oh fuck." Alfred groaned.

"This is why I must ask you Matthew, what happened last night in the alley?"

"Well," Matthew began. "I'm not really sure. Everything was happening really quickly and I'm pretty sure I got hit in the head more than once." He laughed humorlessly, "I wasn't really making time for investigation."

"But you must have seen your attackers," Ivan pressed.

"They were wearing ski masks. I know their basic body types, but nothing more than that."

Ivan hummed quietly. "Did they use any names? Any special attributes that may help us identify them? Think carefully, Matthew. I know you are observant."

Matthew though for a moment, his features scrunching up as he struggled to remember the details of his encounter. "Well," he began hesitantly, "I think one of then was named Frank. He was the one who pinned me to the wall. He was really big, like big enough to crush me if he wanted to." Matthew absently rubbed at the collar of his shirt, fingering the prominent ring of bruises through the fabric. He'd chosen to wear a turtleneck to hide them, choosing not to dwell on his encounter, although a few faint purple blotches could still be seen if one looked hard enough. "His fingers were the size of sausages." He added bitterly.

"There were two other men in the alley with you," Ivan prompted. "What were they doing? What did they look like?" He pulled a small rectangular object from his pocket. 'Probably a tape recorder', Alfred's brain supplied.

Ivan must have caught Alfred's accusing stare, as he raised his palms disarmingly. "I just wish to have all the information possible at my disposal." He turned to face Matthew. "You do not mind, do you?"

Matthew shook his head 'no'.

"Good, then let's continue. What happened last night?"

Matthew shut his eyes, the past night's events appearing before his eyes before he could command them. "I," he licked his lips, moistened his throat, tried again. "I was dragged in there by the big one. There were two other men following; they came out of a van parked a few spots away."

"What did the van look like?" Ivan asked, leaning forward. Alfred did the same, interested to hear the full version of events.

"It was dark, I think. I never got a good look at it; the big guy had already grabbed me." He paused, as though trying to discern what happened next. "Frank grabbed me; I think it was Frank. He dragged me to the alley and threw me against the wall. Then he picked me up and pinned me there by my neck. My hands," he gave a small sound, "they were behind my back. They started talking about something, I cant remember exactly what was said because I was still trying to get free, but I know they said they were there as intimidation."

"And what were they trying to dissuade you from doing?" Ivan continued, his voice low and deep with thinly veiled anger.

"They didn't want Alfred and I to keep investigating, I think." Matthew opened his eyes guiltily, refusing to look at Alfred's shocked face. Seconds later, Alfred was on his knees, cupping Matthew's cheeks in his hands and demanding that the Canadian look at him. The American looked torn, furious that Matthew would keep the reason for his attack a secret and upset at himself for not believing that Matthew as in danger.

"Matt," he choked out, "Matt why didn't you tell me? Oh god I'm so sorry, I should have listened to you. This is all my fault."

"Shut up you moron," Matthew growled. "It's like you said, we're in the together. I knew the risks, and I kept helping you because you're right; we have to bring these people to justice. Maybe the attack helped me realize it. I don't know!" His voice softened minutely, "All I know is that it's not your fault."

"But it is," Alfred shouted, immediately regretting it when Matthew winced. "I should have stopped when you said it was a bad idea."

"How many times have you done that in the past?" Matthew asked with a small grin. He quickly frowned when he realized Alfred was still upset. "Al," he sighed, "I'd never blame you for something like this. Yeah, maybe we shouldn't have been so involved, but I should have realized that and demanded that you back off a bit. And I'm not even sure we should do that. We're obviously getting close, and it would be a shame to throw all our hard work away now. I guess what I'm trying to say is that you were right all along. Maybe you have a bad way of going about things, but you've proven that these people have to be stopped. And if I'm going to be fighting crime, nobody knows more about heroes than you." He gave a small smile, coughing lightly as his lungs caught up with him.

Alfred cracked a grin, settling himself on the cough beside his friend and enveloping him in a bear hug. "Thanks Matt," he muttered.

That stayed like that for a few moments, content to be in each other's company before an awkward cough from the commander reminded the two bonds of his presence. Ivan looked mildly uncomfortable, but he cracked a small grin anyway, glad to see that Matthew's attack hadn't shattered their friendship. If anything, it appeared to strengthen it, as well as their resolve to see the case through.

"Sorry about that," Alfred smiled.

"No, it's alright. I'm glad to see you two are such good friends. You are very lucky, you know."

"Yeah," Matthew grinned, "I guess I am. I might not be tomorrow morning, when this oaf demands pancakes at 6am, but hey, what are you going to do?"

"Alfred gave him a gentle slap. "At least I get up. Admit it, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't get out of bed. And then where would we be?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd be in bed." Matthew remarked.

"Alfred rolled his eyes. "Saucy wench, ain't he?"

"Oh for the love of," Matthew growled. "Please stop with the drawl. You know that pisses me off."

"You're just jealous," Alfred grinned, "Because all the cute Canadian babes love the southern cowboy attitude."

"You're from Florida!" Matthew exclaimed. "You're not even a cowboy. You lived on an orange plantation. You're more Mexican than anything."

"An imposter who knows a damn good orange when he sees one," Alfred amended. "And I totally caught that reference, by the way."

"Are you denying it?"

"No," Alfred admitted sulkily. "But just because they're not legal citizens doesn't mean they're not great people. I played baseball with the workers all the time."

"I think we should get off this topic," Matthew grinned, "since there's a cop right there."

"I agree," Alfred remarked, "Although he's Canadian so I don't know why he would care. Especially since he's probably an orange juice connoisseur and realizes that there's more to life than that Tropicana crap.

"Excuse me," Ivan interjected, "Must as I would love to discuss the validity of certain immigration claims, I believe we have more important matters at hand. You're both very lucky, by the way, that I stopped the tape."

Both Alfred and Matthew had the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry about that," Alfred drawled, wincing when Matthew gave him another slap. "Sorry." He amended, dropping the accent.

"Are you ready to behave so we can get this over with?"

"Yeah," Matthew replied, "Better start the tape before Alfred says something stupid."

"Very well. Then we shall resume where we left off. What happened after you were held against the wall." He grimaced, then tried again. "I'm sorry, that was fairly callous given the circumstances."

"It's alright," Matthew replied. "You have a job to do, after all. Anyway, I'll get on with the story. I wouldn't want to waste more of your time." Matthew sat back and closed his eyes, trying to envision the alley as it had been during his attack. "Let's see, they were holding me down and doing the whole 'crazy shotgun talk' thing. They threw in a few punches here and there, and then they heard something. Sirens, I think. Anyway, two of them dropped me on the pavement and left. I think they were warming up the van, but I don't know. They left the one guy –Rajed- to finish the job." He took a shuddering breath, curling in on himself a bit more as the memories played back in high definition. He had the knife against my neck, but something happened. Then there was a lot of pain, and darkness. Think that's where he, uh, you know." He made a small gesture to his stomach and grimaced.

Alfred stood shakily, announcing that he would be right back. Matthew noticed that the American had gone unusually pale, and light tremors wracked his body. Alfred gave a shaky smile that looked more forced than anything, then strode toward the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of running water was heard, followed by the faint sound of retching. Matthew gave Ivan an apologetic look, which the commander returned with a sad smile, waving for the Canadian to go ahead. Matthew muttered a hurried thanks.

Ivan gazed around the apartment with muted interest as the sound of faint sobbing trailed down the hall. Matthew was no doubt assuring the American that everything would work itself out. Ivan sighed. He really had to stop involving witnesses in his cases. But that was why he was one of the best detectives in the force, and the reason for his promotion. By recognizing the merits of finding a trustworthy witness, and then using their position to gain intelligence that would otherwise have been unattainable, crimes were solved. It was unfortunate that confidentiality was sacrificed for the intelligence, but it couldn't be helped. The only regret Ivan had was witness involvement, though he had been fortunate that Matthew's attack was only the second incident in his 25 years of policing where one of the informants was discovered and seriously injured. Usually the guilty party would just avoid them, perhaps give them a little warning. Attacks were rare.

Ten minutes after they had left, both boys returned. Alfred looked much more calm, though Ivan could clearly see the red tinges around his eyes. Matthew just looked harrowed. They sat back on the couch, waiting for Ivan to continue the conversation.

Matthew coughed lightly. "Sorry about that."

"It's alright," Ivan replied. "I understand." Alfred mumbled his thanks.

"Now," Ivan continued, "I wish I could say we could put this incident behind us, but I don't believe we can. Our only suspect has been murdered, and your security has been compromised. However, we are becoming more sure about the nature of this case. It seems that the majority of the deaths seem to involve office documentation in some way, although we have yet to figure out what the exact significance of these documents is. However, I believe that the executives and other men in positions of power may have something to do with this. Gary's irrational hatred seems to be a good indication of their ill intentions, and while Gary's motivations remain unclear, I believe he may have been trying to send a message."

"Wait," Alfred interjected, "So he did kill those people?"

"The evidence seems to point to that conclusion."

"So all we have to do is find out what Gary was trying to tell us," Matthew reasoned.

"Oh no we don't," Alfred growled. "I'm through with policing. It was fun but there's no way I'm going to let anyone get hurt again."

"Al," Matthew murmured, "We're helping catch the people responsible. You're saving lives by helping. You have to remember that we're doing this for a greater cause, and even through I don't like to admit it, we'd be assholes to back out now. Not after we've already put everyone at risk."

"Matthew. We are not doing this. I don't care if I'm the world's biggest asshole. You are not going to get hurt again because of me."

"And what makes you think I'm going to get hurt again? I can take care of myself, princess." Matthew snorted. "Besides, there's no guarantee that we won't be attacked again regardless of what we do. So we might as well do something productive."

"There's a guarantee," Alfred exclaimed. "Use some common sense. If we back off, there would be no reason to come after us."

"What if we know too much?" Matthew countered.

"Well then that's too fucking bad," Alfred shouted.

"Al," Matthew soothed. "You know you want to do this. You said so yourself, and now that I'm finally on board with your stupid scheme, you decide to back out? What the _fuck_, man?"

Alfred didn't say anything for a moment. Than he turned to Ivan and gave a soft sigh. "What would you want us to do?"

Matthew grinned, patting Alfred on the back. "Thanks Al. Just think; you'll be a hero. We'll be doing something useful with our overrated lives."

"I'm not doing it to be useful, or to help people." Alfred cut in. "I'm doing this so I can make those motherfuckers pay."

Matthew shrugged rolling his eyes at Ivan. "He'll come around eventually. He just hasn't had his coffee yet."

"I've been drinking nothing but coffee all day." Alfred exclaimed.

"Well then maybe you've been having too much."

"Anyway," Ivan cut in, "I do not wish for you to do any more investigating. Keep your ears open and observe those around you, but do not do anything foolish. I do not want to hear about another random search of someone's office. These people are dangerous, and until we find out what they want, there's no point in trying to play hero. Just gather intelligence, preferably on executives or other employees who have access to important documents."

"Is that it?" Alfred asked.

"Yes. This is a game of chess. Watch and wait to make your move; do not strike out randomly or you will surely lose."

Matthew nodded, yawning widely as he did so. He gingerly rose from the couch, keeping the blanket wrapped around his waist. "Sorry guys, I think I'm going to hit the hay. The meds are still fucking with me and I'm tired."

"Alright," Alfred replied. "You good getting there?"

"Shut up, princess." Matthew snapped. "I'm not helpless, you know."

"I know. You just look really worn out. Want me to bring you some water?"

Matthew looked as though he wished to argue, then changed his mind. "Okay," he mumbled. "Thanks." He turned to face the commander, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. "Goodnight." He smiled, shuffling toward his room.

Ivan nodded in farewell, standing and gathering his coat in preparation for his departure. "Get some rest; you'll need it in the coming days."

Alfred was already heading toward the kitchen, ignoring Matthew's embarrassed complaint that he wasn't an invalid and he could get his own fucking water, for fuck's sake.

"I've got to get going, and you both look like you could use some rest," Ivan announced, already halfway toward the door.

"Thanks," Alfred called. "You too. Have a good night."

The click of the door opening then shutting announced Ivan's departure. Alfred delivered Matthew's water, smirking when Matthew grudgingly thanked him.

The American then crept into his own room, peeling off his clothes and deciding to forgo a shower in favour of sliding beneath clean, superman printed sheets. He turned off his bedside lamp, staring at the ceiling and doing his best to fall asleep. Ivan's farewell replayed in his head and he sighed. They were going to need a lot more than sleep to solve this mystery.

So I finished Nanowrimo on time. This is a blessing and a curse because well, I'm a winner (wow that feels weird to say), but now that the contest is over there's no motivation for me to keep writing and finish this thing.

So we'll see how this goes.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_In which Alfred and Matthew, in a flagrant disregard for any kind of authority, choose to continue with their investigation._

The following days passed in a blur. Matthew remained in the apartment for the rest of the week, straightening pillows and dusting shelves until it looked like a showroom. The various trinkets that covered the many shelves and tables in the common room had been arranged in tasteful bundles, and took up significantly less space than they did before. Alfred had nearly had a fit when he saw Matthew preparing to throw out some of the ornaments, and after a heated debate the two came to a compromise. Matthew, after whining piteously about the sheer boredom that accompanied spending 24 hours in one's apartment, was given permission to rearrange the furniture, decorations, and all matter of useless crap however he pleased. However, he was not allowed to throw out a single item. (While good in theory, this compromise actually resulted in both men stumbling around the apartment and cursing vehemently for the majority of the week as they tried to find their belongings amidst growing piles of clutter, Eventually Alfred said to hell with it all and shoved the majority of the loose junk inside a scarcely-used hallway closet. Matthew then proceeded to set up camp in front of the television and play Halo until the odd hours of the morning.) Needless to say, even with the clutter problem temporarily resolved, it was with growing anticipation that both men looked forward to Monday.

Matthew returned to work the following Monday. His absence prompted a flurry of questions from Gilbert and Arthur, though Gary's death seemed to be the primary concern of most employees. Alfred's cover story was that Matthew had been in a car accident, which had resulted in a concussion and a few fractured ribs, the stab wound wasn't mentioned, and only Gilbert and Arthur knew the truth. Alfred was reluctant to tell Gilbert, but after the albino paid a surprise visit to their apartment, the American knew that the albino deserved an answer. Plus, Matthew was going to be incredibly pissed when he found out about Alfred's reluctance.

Gilbert had been furious, determined to hunt down the men who had injured Matthew, but the Canadian dissuaded him from taking action. "It's alright," he soothed. "They're going to find justice soon enough."

Matthew's return, while originally expected to provoke a veritable snowstorm of office gossip, was relatively low-key. The Canadian fielded the inquiries about his absence like a professional, smiling and nodding as he described the black Mercedes that had supposedly ploughed into him. Alfred looked on worriedly, scanning the crowd of office workers for a potential murderer. Everyone looked normal with the exception of Sheryl, an older woman who insisted on personally delivering a small fruit bouquet. Matthew had bashfully thanked her, shaken her hand, and patiently listened as she recounted her life's story before quietly slipping back to his cubicle, announcing that he should get to work. The crowd eventually thinned, then disappeared altogether. Matthew sighed in relief.

"It's nice that everyone's so involved," Alfred remarked, idly flicking a stack of papers on Matthew's desk. "I didn't think you were that popular."

"He's not," Gilbert replied. "Everyone's just desperate for a story. You see groups like that all the time now, desperate for a new tidbit of gossip." He snorted disdainfully, "They'd cry witch on their friends for a Timbit."

"Nice reference," Matthew remarked. "The Salem trials. I like that. Pretty fitting after what we went through today."

"People are burning each other at the stake for a few acres of land?" Alfred questioned.

"Metaphorically, yes," Gilbert admitted. "As soon as one of those ladies gets her claws into you, you're screwed. Like, you may not be burnt at the stake, but you might as well be."

"I take it you speak from experience?" Matthew inquired.

"Well," Gilbert coughed, "I may have told Sheryl to go fuck herself when I caught her snooping around my desk."

"Of course. And now?" Matthew sighed, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Well," Gilbert shrugged, "Let's just say I'm not exactly welcome at next year's Christmas party."

"That's it?" Alfred smirked. "Not invited to the Christmas party," he sighed dramatically, shaking his head in false sympathy, "how are you going to survive?"

"Har, har," Gilbert grumbled. "You're a real riot, you know? Maybe you should do stand up."

Alfred scowled. "Real funny. Your wit amazes me."

"That's not all. I'm pretty sure they started an office pool on how long it'll be before I kill someone else. And nobody talks to me in the elevator. Actually," he clarified, "Nobody gets on the elevator when they see me. They probably think I'm going to stab them with a pencil or something. Maybe a candy cane; add some post-Christmas irony to the mixture. I'm sure peppermint goes well with blood."

"Everything goes well with blood. That's why the Saw movies are so popular. Just chuck a couple of guys in a room with some power tools and shower them with fake blood. Instant blockbuster."

"Guys," Matthew interjected. "Maybe we shouldn't be talking about murder right now? Just a suggestion, you know."

Both Alfred and Gilbert had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. "Right," the American muttered. "Murder. Bad topic."

"Speaking of which, what are you guys doing to catch the real guy?"

"Nothing, really." Matthew admitted.

"You must be doing something," Gilbert reasoned. "I mean, you're detectives for fuck's sake. Get a black sedan and cruise the streets with a wire. Keep an ear to the wall and all that jazz."

Alfred snorted. "What detectives have you been hanging around?"

"Look," Matthew reasoned. "We're not detectives. At best, we're special witnesses. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and as a result we may have some value. Trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be."

Gilbert glanced at the faint rectangular bulge under Matthew's shirt, envisioning the brace buried by layers of fabric. "Sorry, man. That was kind of tactless."

"It's alright," Matthew shrugged, giving the albino a slap. "Don't get all fucking weird on me." He gestured grudgingly to Alfred. "Princess here has been pampering me for the last week and I'm sick of it. The last thing I need is for the supposed king of all things awesome to treat me like an invalid."

"Hey," Alfred protested. "I'm a lot better than your parents. You know that if they weren't in Montreal they'd be fawning all over you, tucking their little snookums in at night and force feeding you tomato soup until you died of malnutrition."

"My parents never called me snookums," Matthew growled, "But you're right. They are a little… enthusiastic in their care giving. That's why I moved here."

"And you're too cheap to pay the rent," Gilbert cackled.

"That too," Matthew conceded. He sank down into his office chair, sighing in bliss as the ache in his ribs was temporarily alleviated. "Anyway, we should probably get to work. It's my first day back and I've already pushed my luck pretty far. We're not even done our probationary period and I've taken half a week off."

"But you were injured," Alfred reminded him.

"But nobody cares; especially the dicks managing the payroll."

"Alright," Gilbert intervened. "I think it's time I step in. Neither of you are going to lose your jobs, because in case you haven't noticed, most of the jackasses who run the show have bigger things to deal with right now. Even if they were to try and fire you, it wouldn't work."

"Why do you say that?" Alfred asked.

"Because Matt's been injured from an unforeseen incident. He has severe injuries, and I'm sure that if you were to bring the case to the labour board and give them your full medical records, Matt would be found innocent and brought back to work. Even better, maybe they'd give him compensation."

"Let's not get carried away," Matthew reasoned. "I'm still going to work. Unlike some people, I have standards. And pride. And I shower more than once a month."

Alfred and Gilbert looked at each other. Alfred was the one to ask, "Who doesn't shower?"

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Going by smell? Both of you."

"Not true," Alfred argued. "I'm in the shower all the time."

"Just not for the right reason," Matthew smirked.

Gilbert howled with laughter while Alfred turned a deep red, muttering under his breath about ungrateful little shits who don't show their thanks after they've been pampered for a week. Matthew gave him a pat on the back.

"There, there," he chuckled. "I'm sure you'll find someone eventually."

Alfred scowled. "You both suck, you know that? I'm going somewhere my talents will be appreciated."

"I don't think you'll find anywhere like that during the day," Gilbert laughed. "Best wait until tonight. Maybe a little earlier. Got to claim your corner, you know."

Alfred stuttered uselessly as Matthew shook with barely contained chuckles. Finally, he decided that he might as well head back to his cubicle.

"Hey," Matthew called. "Don't be upset. I'm sure you'd make a great whore."

Alfred sighed, flipping Matthew the bird without turning around. Maybe Arthur would be sympathetic to his cause. Hey, miracles can happen.

**xXx**

Alfred worked diligently until lunch, focusing on his reports in an attempt to ignore the buzzing accusations in his head. Who wanted to kill Matthew? Was he next? He'd have to wait and find out. Alfred gave a sigh and saved his document. Whether it was a game or a project, the American diligently saved every ten minutes. Just a bit of university-induced paranoia that had yet to work it's way out of his system.

Alfred spun idly in his chair, picking at the torn rubber armrests. Matthew was probably laughing it up with Gilbert in the cafeteria. They were probably discussing hockey, and Matthew would be gloating over the Leaf's latest embarrassing loss. Alfred threw his head back and closed his eyes, wishing he could just eat already.

He had barely begun to relax when he felt cold hands clasp his shoulders. Throwing all dignity out the window, the American gave a small shriek and batted them away, whirling around to face their owner.

Matthew grinned sheepishly, absently rubbing his wrists. "Sorry," he chuckled. "I just thought you'd want to grab a bite before break's over."

"Jesus Christ," Alfred mumbled, "Your hands are like ice cubes. Scared the living shit out of me."

"Yeah," Matthew smirked. " If you think my hands are cold, you should see Gilbert's. He got it into his head that he could beat me in a snowball fight. Naturally, I had to prove him wrong. I kind of feel bad now that it's over. He was probably just fired up about the Leafs losing again and needed a scapegoat." He paused, tapping a finger against his chin in thought. "Then again, he should know better. You don't even have to watch the game to know what the outcome will be with the Leafs."

"Okay then," Alfred smiled, "Well, I'd love to stick around and listen to another rant about the Leafs, but I think I'm going to get some lunch. You in?"

"Dude, that's why I came up here," Matthew scowled.

"I know," Alfred grinned. "But I figured you would have forgotten by now. Not much up here, you know?" Alfred laughed, tapping Matt's forehead teasingly.

"Fuck you, princess. I was going to treat you to some hot chocolate, but you can kiss that good deed goodbye."

Alfred's grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Well someone's cranky today." He groaned. "So much for that random act of kindness."

"Random act of kindness my ass." Matthew grumbled. "That's how they get you. Offer you a free hug, maybe hold a door and BAM, next thing you know there are twelve extra people at your door on the eve of your next dinner party, all of whom are expecting a free meal."

"What kinds of people do you hang out with?" Alfred asked incredulously. "Because I'm pretty sure that's not how it's supposed to work. And," he added, raising his voice mockingly, "how do you know what a dinner party's like? The closest you've come to a formal dinner was your high school prom, and you were only there for an hour before you decided to ditch and get drunk."

"I don't need to host a party to know that people inviting themselves over and taking your food isn't the social norm." Matthew retorted. "And I wasn't drunk."

Alfred shot him a leveling look. Matthew looked away, a light pink flush rising in his cheeks. "Alright, maybe I had a bit more than I should have. Still, that was five years ago."

"And you know you should have stayed."

"Well, yeah. My mom beat my sorry ass when she found out. And trust me, all those years coaching hockey paid off. She's a fucking tank, man." Catching Alfred's disapproving glance, Matthew sighed. "You know I don't do that shit any more. I had a couple of wild years, sure, but at least they finished up before grades really started to matter."

Alfred hummed in agreement. "Point taken. On a slightly more important note; are we eating or not?"

"Well we won't be if you don't hurry up," Matthew shot back. "Gilbert's been riding my ass about this analysis that needs to be done. Utterly fucking useless. I'm basically listing random crap that could cut costs."

"Well that sounds pretty easy," Alfred replied. "I mean, at least you're making a difference. And how hard can it be?"

"Very." Matthew responded flatly. "I have to find ways to cut costs. And really, no matter what I suggest, it's all going to cumulate to the idea of cutting pay, cutting pensions, or cutting benefits. And guess who's going to be the scapegoat when everyone gets pissed?"

"Harsh," Alfred admitted. "But at least nobody blames you. And I'm sure you have some good ideas that you can include."

"Yeah, but most of them involve cutting out the $150 gourmet lunches for the executives."

"Well you don't know for sure that they're $150," Alfred reasoned.

"Oh my god, you're enabling them." Matthew groaned. "I can't believe it. I thought you of all people would understand. I mean, you complain about Tims charging $1.50 for a bagel."

"Yeah, I suppose. I'll admit that they don't deserve the fancy lunches, but you can't get too upset over that. I mean, they're at the top. They've worked their way up and now they get to reap the benefits."

"Yeah," Matthew muttered. "At everyone else's expense."

Alfred sighed, not wanting to provoke the Canadian farther. "You have to admit, even though they throw money around like nobody's business, it seems to be the industry standard for people in highly respected jobs. You can't hate them for taking advantage of what's already been set in place by others."

"Well they could change things instead of just going with the flow," Matthew argued. "It would save us a lot of grief; knowing that the execs limited their expenses to just one gourmet meal a week. They could probably buy a company car with the money they'd save in a year."

"But," Alfred chided, "Are you saying that you'd turn down a free gourmet lunch if it was offered to you?"

"Well no, not all the time." Matthew admitted. "But I'd use some restraint. I wouldn't eat like that every day, and if I did I would pay for it myself. God knows I'd make enough. I bet everyone on the board of directors makes three times what we do."

"You're not giving them enough credit," Alfred sighed. "They make way more than that and you know it."

"And they don't even have to show up every day!" Matthew exclaimed, clearly incensed.

"Well, that's why they're on the board of directors. They show up for a meeting, eat their free lunch, and make a few decisions. I figure it's just a way to keep the old guys up top from staying longer than they have to. I mean, what sounds better, retirement, or a seat on a board of elite senior employees?"

"Yeah, but if a snarky 24 year old is able to figure it out, don't you think that a 60 year old man who's been working here longer than you've been alive would also know the ruse?"

"Maybe he doesn't care?" Alfred offered.

Matthew gave a curt nod. "I suppose so. There's really no other answer for it."

"Maybe life's better as a series of questions?"

"Oh lord," Matthew groaned. "Don't get all existential on me."

"Don't worry," Alfred laughed. "That was a one-time thing. Consider my philosophy disproven."

"You can't disprove philosophy," Matthew replied, heading toward the cafeteria. "You can only pray that people are intelligent enough to realize it's mindless bullshit."

"Not true," Alfred countered. "You studied philosophy and turned out to be fairly competent."

"I took one course in second year. That's hardly studying it. And," he added defensively. "The prof took a liking to me and showed me the truth behind all philosophical ideas. I wouldn't have gotten into it otherwise."

"So you got high together." Alfred smirked.

"Pretty much," Matthew admitted. "But don't go spreading that around. In his defense, I did learn a lot. There are a surprising amount of reasonable philosophers out there, just none that exist in our time. Go back a few centuries, look at some Aristotle or Thomas Aquinas, and you'll come to some profound conclusions."

"You're so cute when you try to sound deep," Alfred grinned.

"Shut up," Matthew grumbled. "Just because you can't understand basic concepts like implicit meaning-"

"Or maybe there's nothing to not understand," Alfred cut in.

"Stop trying to be clever." Matthew cleared his throat dramatically. "As I was saying, just because you can't understand the basics of literary analysis, and thus comprehend rational concepts like critical reasoning, doesn't mean philosophy doesn't have some merit. At least it teaches you how to think, unlike economics."

"On that I can agree," Alfred conceded. "This isn't quite what I thought the working world would be like."

"No," Matthew sighed. "I thought I would have a little more freedom, a little more cash, and a lot more time."

"I thought those complaints were supposed to stop once we graduated." Alfred mused.

"They'll never stop," was Matthew's apathetic response. "I just wish I could do things over."

"No you don't," Alfred reasoned. "I mean, you said so yourself when we first met. You went into economics for one reason: money. And let's face it, if you went into the arts you'd probably be serving me my morning coffee and dealing with obnoxious bastards on their Macs for the rest of your shift. Then you'd go home and write depressing poetry that nobody would read."

"I know," Matthew sighed. "But I can still hope. I mean, some people have stuck it rich in the arts."

"Like who?" Alfred challenged.

"Plenty of people. Look at Margret Attwood. James Patterson. J.K Rowling. Tolkien."

"Okay," Alfred drawled. "I only recognized half of those."

"Yeah, I figured," Matthew sighed. "And truth be told, I'm not sure they actually make that much money. AT least, not compared to the executives you see strutting down Bay street like they own the place."

"To be fair, they might."

"Streets are public property. I think."

Alfred tried again. "Anyway, I don't mean to crush you hopes and dreams,"

Matthew snorted disdainfully.

"But," Alfred continued," I think you should stick to what you know, even if you hate it. You've got a degree in a field where there's still some job growth, which is a miracle in itself in the current economy. It would be a shame to throw it all away to try your luck in a field where very few people are successful."

"I know," Matthew frowned. "But I feel like there should be more to life than this. Not that I don't mind playing hockey and hanging out with you and Gilbert and the team, it's just that spending nine hours a day in a meaningless job that contributes next-to-noting to society really gets me down."

"I can see why." Alfred admitted. Catching Matthew's disappointed look, he relented slightly. "You can always try freelance writing on the side. Maybe try for a column in the local paper or something. Start small and work your way up from there. That way you'll have a steady income while you try to sort out your writing style and whatever else writers need to sort out."

"You know," Matthew mused thoughtfully, "that's not actually a bad idea. Maybe I'll get on that."

"You should. There are plenty of writers who started out writing on the side."

Matthew hummed in agreement. "But I'm not thrilled about the concept of working for a paper. I mean, if it were a national one, sure. But I think the only places that would take me on would be the redneck rags that dare pass for local news."

"Hey," Alfred chided, "you've got to start somewhere."

"Yeah, but I want to start somewhere good. That's the difference. I have standards, however low."

Alfred sighed dramatically. "Well, good luck with that."

"Thank you," Matthew replied haughtily.

Alfred clapped the Canadian on the back as he headed toward the cafeteria. "Now," he grinned, "I don't know about you, but I'm going to get something to eat. No more talk of uncertain futures. The present is fucked up enough as is."

The two walked in silence for a while, glancing at the rows of cubicles that filled their floor. Upon reaching the elevator, Matthew gave a furtive glance to the dark corridor to his left, where he knew a stairwell was located. "You know," he began, nudging Alfred in the side, "the execs are probably eating up there right now."

"What's your point?" Alfred asked. "If you're planning on going up and lecturing them, I'd advise you against it. I don't think they'll take that too kindly. I mean, I'm not an expert or anything, and I certainly don't eat lunch with them, but I can guess, you know? Maybe they don't want a random underling interrupting their lunch to preach? I think that's a fair observation." Upon seeing Matthew's determined look, the American sighed. "For fuck's sake, Matt. What part of hierarchy don't you understand?"

"Shush," Matthew chided, elbowing Alfred in the side. The American winced, glaring at his shorter counterpart.

"Now," Matthew continued, "Are you going to be a good little bitch and listen before shooting your mouth off?" He continued without pause, ignoring Alfred's half shocked, half amused look. "Good. Because I'm not going up to lecture them, princess. I'm going up to listen in on their meeting."

"Okay," Alfred interjected, "I know you want revenge and all, but I don't think this is the best way to go about things. I mean, there's no way they're not going to notice you. We don't even have an excuse to be on that floor. They're going to figure you out in a second. And," he continued harshly, ignoring Matthew's protests, "We're not bringing them Tims. They have better coffee, and we're going to look like idiots if we try and use that as our excuse."

"I know," Matthew sighed. "But I really want to get these things sorted out. And every clue Gary has left us points to the execs."

"Maybe there's a problem with the ledger. I don't know." Alfred countered. "Whatever it is, there's no excuse for you to barge into a meeting pretending to be Sherlock Holmes."

Matthew nodded and pressed the elevator button. "Let's just get lunch. We'll come up with a plan eventually."

Alfred nodded, tapping his foot against the wall as he waited for the elevator to arrive.

"You know," he muttered after some time, "It probably would have been easier if we'd taken the stairs."

"Yeah," Matthew nodded. "More environmental too. Gees, we're acting like real assholes today, eh?"

Alfred hummed. "I was thinking about the exercise more, actually. I mean, I don't know about you, but after a week of standing around like an invalid, I could use the exercise."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed, "And you're growing love handles."

Matthew's expression flattened. "Enlighten me, princess." He growled. "What do you think love handles are?"

"Well," Alfred muttered, "I figure they're little rolls of fat on either side of your stomach. I mean, I'm only going by what I've seen on you, but…" he trailed off suggestively.

"Take a look in the fucking mirror, jackass." Matthew sputtered angrily.

"That would be some mirror," Alfred remarked dryly.

"What?" Matthew started, his anger temporarily abated.

"A fucking mirror. You know-"

"'Okay, I get it." Matthew groaned. "You're so clever."

"I try," Alfred grinned.

"Fucking mirrors aside, I do plenty of environmental things. I bike to work in the summer."

"We've only been here for a few weeks," Alfred commented. "You haven't even tried that yet."

"Yeah, well, I should get points for the idea. Besides," Matthew reasoned, "It's more than you've ever committed to."

A small ding was heard, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Both men stepped in, and Matthew glanced at Alfred furtively before selecting a floor. A low humming filled the confined space as the elevator began to rise. Alfred gave Matthew a questioning glance as the elevator continued to rise, going past the floor that contained the cafeteria.

"I just wanted to see," Matthew replied, avoiding the American's gaze.

Alfred sighed. "Fine. But when the CFO sees you and asks why you're crashing his brunch, I'm staying out of it."

"Deal," Matthew agreed. "Besides," he reasoned, "He's not going to see us."

A small ding was heard as the elevator arrived at the top floor. The highest level of the building was set up in such a way that the elevator was actually in a large waiting room, wherein executives could socialize or strategize. The main room branched off into several large conference rooms, as well as the offices of the high-profile employees. The benefit of this layout was, of course, that anyone in the elevator could listen in on the conversation of anyone standing in the common room, as long as the people conversing spoke loud enough. Which is why Matthew hurriedly pushed himself against the crack between the elevator doors, jamming his thumb against the button that kept them from opening. The Canadian wore a look of utmost concentration, and was listening with such intensity that Alfred scarcely dared breathe. After a moment, Alfred gave the Canadian an energetic thumbs-up, realizing his intentions. The American then moved to stand beside the control panel, ready to close the doors or hit the emergency stop, if need be.

Matthew put a finger to his lips, pressing his ear closer against the door. From what he could tell, nobody had noticed the elevator's arrival. Muffled voices could be heard from outside the door, although from what he could discern, there were only two people involved in the conversation. From the tone of their voices, they appeared to be worried about something. However, due to the thick steel of the door and the low tones in which the conversation was carried out, only small snippets of information could be heard.

"…Does he think he's doing?"

"…Offshore. He's all ready to go…"

Matthew cursed under his breath and dropped to the floor, attempting to hear better through the crack under the sliding doors. The quality of sound improved minutely, and he grinned in triumph.

"I'm telling you," the man with the deeper voice argued. "He's gone too far. We all got into this together, and if he keeps going at the rate he's at, the whole thing's going to go belly-up."

"He said he's taking care of it. We can't do anything without turning our backs on the whole venture, and we both know that's not a reality."

"And what if they figure it out, hmm? What do we do then?"

Matthew started, recognizing the finality of the conversation. "Relax. He says it's under control. No need for any unpleasant action."

Alfred, catching Matthew's panicked look, jammed his thumb against the control panel, hitting the button for the ground floor. Both men held their breath as the elevator paused, then slowly began to drop. Matthew gave a low whistle of relief.

"Man, I thought we were fucked for a moment there."

"Me too," Alfred replied. "You should have seen your face, man. You looked fucking terrified."

"You didn't hear what they were saying."

Alfred paused, absorbing the statement. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't think we should talk about it here," Matthew replied, staring at the control panel. "Tonight, when we get home."

"Alright," Alfred agreed. "Are you sure we shouldn't just go now?"

"No," Matthew reasoned. "I don't think so. Someone would notice the absence. And I don't think we can afford to be any more suspicious right now."

Alfred nodded thoughtfully. "Then we leave right at 5:30. Let's not stay any longer than we have to. Besides, if things are as bad as you say, it might not be wise to hang around after most people have left."

"Yeah," Matthew agreed. "Witnesses are our friends right now. All the same, we should keep to ourselves until tonight. We don't know how determined certain people can be."

"Alright. But tonight we're going to lock the door, turn off the lights, and you're going to tell me everything."

Matthew sighed. "Agreed. We'd better include the commander too. Something tells me he might want to hear this."

* * *

><p>I'm alive! And hopefully I'll get this done soon. Thinking of editing and making it an ebook, since I made the NaNoWriMo deadline. (it's free) thoughts?<p> 


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